


the tender ache when you press against bruises

by bobtheacorn



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ?????, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Southern Gothic, Blood Drinking, Fluff and Humor, Keith & Shiro (Voltron) are Half-Siblings, Kissing, M/M, Make Out Sessions that Escalate Quickly, Male Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Masturbation, Resolved Sexual Tension, They're So Stupid I Swear To God, Vampire Bites, Vampire Keith (Voltron), empath Lance, this is a fanfic for a fanfic so it's a bit of a wild time, this isn't usually my spice but here we are lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23075476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobtheacorn/pseuds/bobtheacorn
Summary: Lance shows up at the apartment around 7:30 Saturday evening with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a wild, eager look in his eyes. He toes off his sneakers, kicking them aside."My dad almost didn't let me out of the truck," he tells Keith, half laughing. His cheeks are flushed and he's out of breath, like he ran up the stairs instead of taking them at a patient pace. "I might have let it slip that Shiro isn't gonna be around to chaperone tonight.""Shiro's still here, actually," Shiro calls from the kitchen.Lance opens his mouth, looks at Keith - must have been so focused on Keith that he missed the play of Shiro's amusement in the other room - and Keith tries not to let his whole body go warm. Lance slaps himself in the face with his own hand. He turns to grab the doorknob, mumbling about his big stupid mouth. Keith grabs him by the arm to stop him and lets out a nervous laugh.//Lance is an Empath. Keith is a Vampire. They are both new to their unique circumstances and new to relationships in general, so these are some understandably frustrating hurdles they need to overcome. Or, more or less: 5 Times Lance and Keith Get Interrupted While Making Out + 1 Time They Don't
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 153





	the tender ache when you press against bruises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elementalist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elementalist/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Indigo Pull](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21136244) by [Elementalist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elementalist/pseuds/Elementalist). 



> Hola! This was written as a gift for my friend Carly's Southern Goth AU, which I have been consuming steadily over the past two years as she fed me each and every update! It has been an unbelievable privilege watching her grow as a writer, and I have been burning with enthusiasm for this stupid fic ever since she dropped chapter 1 into my docs! Do you love Keith and Lance being dumb, hopeless teens? Do you love magic realism and vampires and slice-of-life and murder mysteries and wild oscillations between tooth-rotting fluff and angst that makes you scream and want to throw your phone into oblivious?
> 
> Then PLEASE do yourself a solid and go read Indigo Pull!!
> 
> In the interim, you can enjoy this fic on its own, if you like, but context brings all the clarity and most of the punch!
> 
> The lads get Spicy A LOT in this one and that is, surprisingly, the Entire Point! I admit this is not usually my Brand (anafw notwithstanding), but it's good to branch out of our comfort zones every now and then and stretch those writing muscles! It does not come easy, can I just say lmao

Lance wants to kiss Keith literally _all the time_ now that he can, but he's trying to have some self control.

It's not like he's starved for kisses or anything.

It's not like he _needs_ them.

That isn't something you can die from, not being kissed. Except Lance has had a taste of it, and now wanting it burns in his chest almost every waking moment.

He thinks about it when he's eating dinner with his family and earns himself a reproachful look from Rachel across the table. He thinks about it when he should be studying, or sleeping, or paying attention to whoever is talking. He thinks about it when he's in the shower and has to quickly derail his train of thought onto something else, because if he thinks about _that_ while he's _naked_ it is a slippery slide down the rabbit hole and Lance doesn't think he could look Keith in the eye afterward. Especially since he _wants_ -

Well, he's not going to think about what he _wants,_ either, because Rachel is throwing him another look as they pass each other in the hallway that plainly says his thoughts are too loud. The coil of her emotions is growing tighter, more irritated. Lance can't help letting some of that feed his own irritation. He still hasn't quite forgiven her for accosting Keith, even though he understands her motives.

Lance slams his bedroom door.

She could give him a little more privacy. She doesn't have to stay honed in on him whenever they're in the others proximity. Rachel has been using her Gift for longer - she doesn't have an excuse.

Taking a deep breath, Lance digs through his expansive, half-borrowed closet and gets dressed. Then he pulls on a coat, crams a beanie down over his ears, snatches up a scarf, and bolts down the stairs. He is officially no longer grounded and he is not going to waste it. He calls out in the foyer to let his mom know he's going into town as he works his feet into his shoes, and he's out the door the second he gets a confirmation.

October gave Indigo Pull an unprecedented dusting of snow this year. The ground is still crisp even though the sun has made it's best efforts to wash it away. Lance is glad for the extra protection as soon as he steps off the porch. The wind tears at him at wild intervals, letting up only enough for him to catch his breath as he trots down the long lane toward town.

"If it's going to be this cold," Lance huffs into the fabric of his scarf, into the unrepentantly icy air, "It should at least have the decency to snow again…!"

But Veronica has already dashed his dreams about that, and her answer doesn't change no matter how often he asks. Lance is trying not to be bitter.

It will probably be like this for a week, and then it will be 90 degrees again and rain until January.

Lance warms up considerably almost the moment he gets across the bridge and into town. It's not a sudden rise in temperature. It's an internal warmth that blooms and flushes him all the way through when he snags on the faintest impression of familiar, turbulent emotions. Lance follows that thread until he finds who it belongs to: Keith is standing in a sheltered alley between the drugstore and an antique shop, well out of the clawing wind and away from prying eyes.

Lance is grateful for both.

It means that not only does he get to see Keith's face light up when Lance rounds the corner into the alley, but he also gets to hug him tightly without the fear that someone will see - will say something, or _feel_ something - nipping at the back of his mind.

"Lance - _ooph!"_

Keith says it, says Lance's name, bright and sharp, his excitement leaping with the sound. Lance falls into him, riding the high of it, even as they stumble back and the brickwork of the drugstore catches their fall. Keith's husky laughter burst across Lance's cheeks, his hands squeezing Lance's middle. That obnoxious smirk of his deepens, dimpling one of his cheeks.

"What, are you cold or something?"

Keith hooks a finger into Lance's scarf and tugs it down to reveal the pouting frown of his mouth.

"It's like 20 degrees!"

"You're going to sweat to death in the store."

"I can take it off to walk around the store! It's called _layering!_ Just because you're impervious to the weather doesn't mean the rest of us have to suffer. D'you have any idea what the cold will do to my poor face if I don't protect it? My skin is already dry, Keith!"

"Is it?" Keith asks, an eyebrow quirked.

"Yeah," Lance huffs.

"Huh."

Keith still has his hand curled into the front of Lance's scarf; he strokes Lance's cheek with the back of his finger. A quiet thrill shoots through him and into Lance, a little bud of indecisiveness that pokes and prods and makes Lance smile before he can stop himself, the color rising in his cheeks.

"Wish there was something you could do about it," Lance says, maintaining eye contact.

The violet tint to Keith's eyes is much more prominent when everything around them is swathed in grey - the burgeoning smokey clouds, the pale buildings, the people muffled by inattention. The air itself is so dull compared to Keith. The way his eyes crinkle up at the corners, his cheek dusting pink, smile small but so earnest. He is a vibrant storm on the inside, feeling everything so intensely that it spears right through Lance at every moment, affecting his eager heart.

He curls his fingers in the front of Keith's jacket, tugging to close that meager inch between them that the cold air snakes through. The jacket is closed, buttoned all the way to Keith's throat, so Lance can't slip his hands inside of it with the excuse of getting extra warmth.

It loses points for that.

But he thinks, again, of kissing Keith. How his chapped lips would feel, the smell of his skin, any tiny, breathless noise that might sneak out.

Lance tips forward instinctively as Keith squeezes his waist, pulls him in that much tighter, knees to hips to chest; as he darts his gaze down to Lance's mouth and his own lips part around a drawn breath. Desire pools between them thickly, chasing Lance's pulse.

But then Keith lets go. Arms going slack, he pushes gently at Lance until he backs up a step and then straightens from where he was unceremoniously pushed against the wall. Someone walks past the mouth of the alleyway, a scant few feet from where they're huddled, and Lance's awareness expands to their surroundings again: the lull of not-so-distant traffic, the murmur of people inside and out, the low of the wind, bells opening and closing above shop doors and letting out snatches of premature Christmas jingles.

Keith clears his throat. Lance flaps his arms, both of them bashful and trying to shake it off.

"Thanks for coming with me, Lance," Keith says, his disappointment at the lost moment a quiet trickle, easily overpowered by his gratitude. He pulls a crumpled list and a fold of bills out of his jacket pocket. "I haven't, uh… done a lot of grocery shopping. And Shiro asked me to do it while he runs some other errands."

"Well, I'm sort of a pro at shopping with a budget, so you came to the right guy!"

He doesn't think there's any harm in grabbing onto Keith's elbow to lead the way down the street, so he does just that as Keith tucks the money and the list safely away again. They only have to endure the brittle wind for a five minute walk. There's not much foot traffic on a Tuesday afternoon, even if it is downtown. So Lance feels safe leaving his hand looped around Keith's wrist, half-tucked into the pocket.

He withdraws it when they get to the general store, just as the doors hiss open and blast warm air at them. They squint into the force of it and trundle quickly through into the fluorescent-lit lobby of shelves and check-out lanes. Keith continues wincing even after the doors have closed and the hot air has stopped assaulting them. Lance slowly unwinds his scarf.

"Have you tried some shades?" he asks, sensing Keith's discomfort. It's mild, but it's there.

The lights are too bright.

"I'm fine, Lance."

He scuffs his boots off on the wide black mat inside the door, his head down.

Lance doesn't prompt him again. So he doesn't want to look like a poorly disguised celebrity, or some vagrant with a hangover. That's fair.

The general store has been standing for seventy years. The perpetual beep of scanning items that persists beneath the holiday music buzzing out of cracked speakers is as dated as everything else in the store. The only things that have changed about it is the merchandise and single security camera above the door. Somewhere between the aisles, someone is singing along off key and someone else is laughing. The whole place smells like the 70s, like cleaning products and potpourri, and the ceramic floor tiles that were once white and blue are faded yellow with age.

Keith heads off into the nearest aisle. Lance snatches up a basket from the stack beside the door and hurries after him, chiding, "Consult the list!"

"What?"

"The list, Keith, what do you need?" Lance says impatiently, motioning with his hand for Keith to give up the list, which he does with a fresh curl of amusement, "You have to go about this systematically or we'll be going up and down every aisle for hours!"

"It's not a long list, Lance," Keith says.

He takes the basket without complaint when Lance thrusts it into his hands. He is clearly much more comfortable toting the items around rather than being responsible for finding them. Lance unfolds the list and scans it, asks how much money Keith has to spend, and then turns purposefully into the first aisle. Canned foods, dry foods, meat, and frozen foods. Lance skips over the aisles they don't need, price checks items to see if there's a sale, keeps up a murmured running total that he occasionally has to ask Keith for, and carries them energetically through the store.

The basket is squeezed full by the time they reach the check-out. Lance is beginning to suspect that they should have gotten a buggy, but Keith doesn't seem to have any trouble carrying it. He doesn't complain about the handles biting into his palms or ask Lance to hold it so the feeling can return to his fingers.

He just blithely sets it up on the counter and starts unloading the items onto the belt when their turn rolls around. They split the bags between them, and Lance wonders how Keith managed to hold it all by himself because the walk back to the apartment seems much longer between the biting cold threatening to snap his beanie off his head and the growing ache in his arms, the loss of feeling in his hands.

"It wasn't a long list but you sure got a lot," Lance gasps, as if he wasn't a part of the process. In his defense, he is whiny and out of breath as he's forced to climb the stairs up to the apartment with what feels like four tons digging into his fingers.

"Do you want me to carry -?"

"No!" Lance puffs.

He's not going to wuss out on carrying some groceries in the final stretch, even if his arms fall off.

Lance is so grateful to put the damn things down, though, that he almost misses Keith getting his key to unlock the door. There is nothing extraordinary about the everyday motion of taking out a key and turning a lock. Keith does it with a sort of reverence that immediately catches the eye; thumbs over the smooth metal as he turns it in his hand, holds his breath as he inserts it into the door, and only breathes out when he hears the lock _snick_ and the door eases open to welcome him home.

To say all that is to say nothing of how Keith _feels_ when he does it. The tentative curl of love and gratefulness in his chest, the anxious doubt, the bright flood of his relief. Lance gets swept up in it all. He forgets how badly his hands hurt, how heavy the groceries are. Forgets how raw and cold his cheeks feel despite all his attempts to moisturize.

None of these physical woes matter when Keith looks at him like _that,_ just the flash of a tiny smile as he steps through the door. It's a feeling of home, of safety, that Lance often takes for granted because in his life these things have been a permanent fixture.

He has never, ever doubted them.

The apartment is as small and cramped as he remembers it: the white-washed walls mostly bare, the furniture too big for the space. But it's warm, and there's a hint of cinnamon in the air from a plug-in somewhere, the faint spice of someone's Axe body spray. Keith toes off his boots by the door with some difficulty, refusing to set the bags down to do it. Lance has no such tenacity. He drops the bags the moment he closes the door and sighs with relief, flexing his numb fingers.

Keith laughs at him and troops off into the kitchen. After kicking off his own shoes, Lance recovers his discarded bags and follows him, relinquishing them immediately to the care of the kitchen table.

"Okay," Lance blows out, still winded from the walk, and the climb, and the punch of Keith's emotions. He looks around the unfamiliar kitchen, looks at the bags of things that need to be put away, and throws his hands up. He sinks into a chair. "I don't know where anything goes so - I'm gonna let you handle this."

Keith chuckles again, deep in his chest.

"Yeah, don't worry, I'll do it."

He starts unpacking the bags while Lance unwinds his scarf and pulls off his beanie. Lance rubs a hand over his scalp, trying to fluff up his pressed hair, only the tiniest bit self conscious about what it looks like.

"Really, it would just be tedious if I helped," Lance insists, "You'd have to tell me where everything goes. It's just more productive this way."

"Right. It has nothing to do with you being tired."

"I didn't say anything about being tired! I just don't want to be in your way!"

"Right," Keith says again.

"Right!" Lance agrees, grinning. He goes to hang his coat and stuff up on the rack by the door.

When he comes back, Keith has dropped his own jacket across the back of the nearest chair and is reaching to put some boxes up in one of the cabinets.

Lance is not ashamed of the way his gaze automatically rakes over the snug fit of Keith's jeans. Now that Keith has clothes that fit him, and fit him _well,_ the black fabric does not leave much to the imagination. How many days did Lance spend chasing after Keith during track, blessed with this view? He feels like he didn't appreciate it properly when he was fourteen, and fifteen, and so on.

He can definitely appreciate it now.

Keith turns and steps back to the table, preoccupied with his task. He wads up one empty plastic bag and stuffs it into another, reaches for the remaining bag that needs to be put away. Lance slips past him and lifts himself up onto the counter. He plants himself right in front of the open cabinets, in front of the coffee maker, beside a container of sweetener and some coffee mugs waiting to be washed. He braces his heels against the counter and waits.

He barely bites back a grin when Keith turns with cans of corn and green beans and chili cradled in the bend of his arm, one extended to go into the cabinet, and pulls up short. He delights in Keith's small flicker of surprise, his own stomach swooping as Keith slowly lowers the can of beans to his side.

"Lance."

There's a depth in the way he says it. Lance has to suppress a full body shudder.

"Keith," he says.

"What happened to not wanting to get in the way?"

"Oh," Lance makes a show of looking around, curls his hands over the edge of the counter and levels Keith with a deliberately innocent look. "Am I in your way or something?"

"Yeah."

"Well. What are you gonna do about it?"

The counter is short, cheaply made. It gives a faint groan that makes Lance wonder if he should be testing it with his weight. But it's right at the perfect height, it turns out, for Keith to step up between Lance's open knees and be perfectly level with him. The cans _thunk_ onto the counter. One, two, three, the fourth and fifth cans clattering in Keith's haste, because he was trying to be cool and draw it out but his impatience gets the better of him. Lance's breath is hitching and he's _thinking_ about it and maybe his anticipation is bubbling over into them both, the band that finally snaps.

Maybe he _wants to kiss Keith so badly_. Maybe the feeling is mutual. Maybe Lance accidentally amplifies it tenfold without meaning to.

It feels like he's been waiting decades to do it. To cup Keith's face and pull him close. To press his lips to Keith's. To hear the sigh that Keith breathes out and make it his own. Keith grabs him firmly by the waist and yanks him to the very edge of the counter. The firm grip of his hands, the sudden pressure of Keith's hips between his legs, has Lance breaking their desperate kiss to exhale loudly. Keith's hand cups around the back of his neck and pulls him back down.

Keith's tongue licks into his mouth, and this time both of them moan. Lance curls his arms around Keith's shoulders, arches his body to pull Keith closer, hooks his legs around Keith's waist. Keith's knees bump the bottom cabinets, his hand darting out to find support. The cabinet doors bang, cans roll and scatter and hit the floor in a cacophony of noise that neither of them hear.

Nothing else matters.

Not even breathing.

Lance's lungs demand it, though. When he absolutely _has to_ break away, he peppers kisses across Keith's face, mumbles, lost in the headrush, "I think about you all the time, Keith. Y'know? I think about kissing you - and touching you - and -"

_"Lance."_

"Uh huh."

There's a patter of fear, all Lance's. Maybe he said the wrong thing. Maybe he confessed too much. The heat between them burns down to embers in the slow span of a few seconds, and Lance is agonized by the wait between his breaths and Keith's, by the stillness of Keith's body tucked so securely against his. It takes him a moment a swim through the thick of his own heavy feelings and find Keith's.

They're just as tangled as ever, all those ugly things that make him hesitate and none of them directed at Lance. Keith's hesitation stems from his own fear of what he is, his own self-loathing, his confidence that no one could possibly want him when he is like _this._ Lance touches each of those tight little knots - touches Keith's face, as if it is the most precious thing in the world, the way Keith held his house key in his hand - and undoes them one by one as he kisses Keith, soft and undemanding.

It is a stark contrast to the kisses from before.

Lance makes it clear that his wants are from the heart, and not just the body.

That he wants to love Keith in any way that Keith will let him, which is a sentiment that rings real and absolute inside of Keith, as well.

Keith's hands settle on Lance's thighs, scoop up to close around his waist. He kisses Lance back, relenting in the face of his irrefutable proof, and Lance relaxes against him, breathing out a soft sigh.

They both leap out of their skins when the front door creaks open. A burst of cool air, the pound of boots stomping on the mat.

"Keith?"

Shiro is just on the other side of the very small wall that partitions the living room off from the kitchen. Lance swallows back the high, startled noise in his throat and drops to his feet, forcing Keith to stumble back. They're clutching onto each other, awkward, off-balanced. Only whereas Lance moves, dropping next to the floor to pick up the scattered green beans and corn, Keith stands dumbly rooted to the spot.

His surprise, his racing heart, is almost enough to immobilize Lance, too, where he has crawled half under the table. After another second, Keith gets with the program and starts to move, mechanically putting the remaining cans away.

He forgets to answer.

Shiro steps into the kitchen and spots him. His voice is warm, "I thought I heard you in here. Shopping go alright?"

"Y-yeah," Keith clears his throat and doesn't turn. Lance doesn't have to look to know that his face is red, because his own face is scorching, their embarrassment at almost getting caught a two headed snake that hisses like steam, coiling and thrashing. "Sorry. I was… putting this stuff away. I didn't hear you."

"You're fine. Lance?"

Lance yelps and cracks his head so hard on the table that it lifts off the floor. He emerges with a groan and a can of corn, and a thorough case of heat exhaustion. He thinks he might faint.

"Hey! Hi! Shiro. I was just -" He turns the can of corn, trying to ignore the silent laughter that bubbles up from Shiro's calm and steady demeanor. "Picking this up. The… bag ripped."

He lets out a nervous laugh and snatches up the evidence of perfectly whole bags wadded up across the table and chucks them into the trash can.

"Right," Shiro says.

He's standing in the doorway with his hand on his hip, smiling at them. Keith's back is still turned, but he isn't putting anything in the cabinet - just standing there, mortification rolling off him in awkward waves, his ears and the side of his face that Lance can see as red as a sunburn. He jumps when Shiro says, "Well," Even though the laughter is now evident in Shiro's voice, as well. "I'll let you two finish up."

And he troops pointedly down the short hallway to his bedroom. They don't hear the door shut.

Keith visibly relaxes once Shiro's footsteps recede. He glances over his shoulder, then drops his face into his hand and groans, sinking down against the counter. Lance approaches him, giggling sheepishly. He reaches past Keith to set the can on the shelf with its comrades and then shuts the cabinet doors.

"Okay," he says softly, still skittish and wild, "Sorry. That was my bad. I think I got a little - it was a little overwhelming. For me. My powers just came back and I'm still sort of… feeling them out, I guess. Sorry."

"It wasn't all you." Keith says it like a promise, lifts his head, catches Lance's gaze with those electric violet eyes of his. "It's okay. It was… I think about it too," Keith confesses, his eyes darting away, blushing right along with his emotions, "About… kissing you. And…"

_And?_

He doesn't say what else.

But Lance feels the impression of it all the same. The intent, crystal clear. The swoop low in his gut as the phantom of Keith's hands and Keith's mouth and Keith's _everything_ ghost over his skin, all the things he is not bold enough to say, the things he can't help feeling, heightened by Lance's own wild imagination and his giddy relief.

"I'm - I'm gonna go," Lance says, cupping his heated cheeks between his hands in an attempt to cool them and letting out another titter of quiet, bashful laughter, "I can't look at Shiro right now."

"Okay." Keith laughs once, hoarsely. He rubs his knuckles over his cheek. "I don't really want to look at him, either, so that's fair. I hope he doesn't try to give me The Talk or anything. I think I'd jump off the balcony just to get away. That's so embarrassing…"

"Don't do that," Lance chuckles, reaching out to hold Keith by the elbows, to pull him close for a quick hug, "I know you've got like super crazy reflexes, but I think you might give him a heart attack."

"Definitely don't want that."

"Definitely don't want him forgetting what he just saw in the wake of a terrible medical incident," Lance agrees, stifling his laughter against Keith's collar.

Keith presses a chuckle into Lance's shoulder, arms squeezing around him. He smells nice. Like the body spray Lance caught a whiff of when he first came in, like smoke and cedar and something uniquely _Keith._ He smells clean and cared for, and he _feels_ clean and cared for, and Lance is _so happy for him that he could start kissing him again._

Mastering the impulse, Lance steps back.

"Okay. 'M gonna go."

"Okay. Thanks for helping me, Lance."

"Thanks for kissing me, Keith," Lance murmurs. He can't resist completely, ducking in to press a kiss to the corner of Keith's mouth.

"Any time," Keith laughs.

\--

So Lance has a brand new thing to mull over at every opportunity, all thanks to Keith.

_I think about it too. About kissing you. And._

_And._

_AND._

Lance is going to scream.

Pidge kicks him beneath the table, the toe of his sneaker scuffing Lance's shin, a brick to his thoughts.

"Ouch! Pidge, what the f-"

"Will you pay attention?" Pidge demands, scowling at him over a pile of open books. Lance looks at them with trepidation. He hates being in the library. "You ask me to help you catch up on all your homework and then you have the nerve to zone out on me. And you keep projecting this weird... mood. Stop it."

Lance feels a heat around his collar that has nothing to do with the stuffy air in the public library.

"Oh. W-was I?"

"Yeah," Pidge says, still with that accusatory tone.

"Sorry," Lance mumbles, ducking his head, "I - sorry."

"It's fine, just knock it off," Pidge says. His eyes are narrowed, pencil tapping against his notebook so the eraser bounces in an agitated rhythm. "And pay attention. I sacrificed my whole Saturday afternoon to help you out."

"I know, I'm sorry, I really appreciate it, Pidge!"

Lance prostrates himself and fully as he can across the desk. Pidge huffs out a reluctant laugh.

"Just copy these notes."

He picks up the notebook and drops it across the books that are already open in front of Lance. Pidge's minuscule chicken-scratch handwriting shines up at him in green ink from every inch of the page, and when Lance turns it to confirm his fears he finds two more pages exactly like it, front and back.

He groans, "Pidge! You can't expect me to copy all this!"

Pidge hums, seems to reconsider.

"You're right." Lance almost collapses with relief, letting the paper slip from his hand. But then, "I'll make you some photocopies. Gimme a minute."

Pidge snatches up the notebook and unfolds his legs from the chair, standing up. He takes a book off the top of the stack and drops it in front of Lance, instead, "You can work on the history questions in the back of chapter 19 while I'm gone. All the answers are in the chapter text, it's not hard."

Lance groans again, thunking his head on the cover of the book. It's not hard - it's _tedious._ That's the worst kind of work there is. But Pidge disappears without sympathy among the other long tables and high shelves. With no other choice, Lance opens the history book and commits himself to skimming endlessly through ten agonizingly similar pages in search of the answers to the questions he finds in the back of the chapter.

Partway through copying down question three, his phone buzzes. Lance ignores it, trying to be studious. It buzzes again, though, when he is aimlessly browsing for the answer, and Lance deems that as an emergency. No one texts twice in a row with a gap like that unless they're in class with their phone under the desk or they have a time-sensitive inquiry.

He glances up - stretches his awareness out to find Pidge, still at the desk at the front of the library, alight with practical enthusiasm for even the simplest office task - and unlocks his phone.

Keith text:

_Can I come over?_

Lance's heart leaps when he reads it, but the follow up, only a few minutes after, says: _You're not home_

Lance doesn't know what he did to deserve such a devastating blow. He clutches his chest. Takes a moment to absorb it. Then frantically texts back.

 **_L:_ ** _I'm at the library w Pidge trying to get thru my hmw! Did u go all the way to my house u creep??? jk ily ♡♡♡_

 **_K:_ ** _Maybe. Sorry I didnt mean to bother you_

 **_L:_ ** _PLEASE BOTHER ME. History is boring and I'm dying [five crying emojis]_

 **_K:_ ** _Why are you at the library?_

 **_L:_ ** _Homework! I just said lmao_

 **_K:_ ** _Oh_

 **_L:_ ** _Pidge wanted a quiet place w internet access that was also "out of the house" and "appropriate for studying" so here we are. Hunk's working in the garage today so it's just the two of us_

 **_K:_ ** _Okay_

Lance waits, but nothing else arrives. Why is Keith such an awkward texter? And why does Lance think it's so damn endearing? He puts the phone down, finds and copies out his answer from the textbook. He glances around to check for Pidge, who should be back at any moment with a stack of illegible copies for him, and then picks the phone up again.

 **_L:_ ** _Did you need something? Are you ok??_

 **_K:_ ** _I'm ok, just wanted to see you_

Lance's whole body warms up, a smile crawling across his face.

 **_L:_ ** _So come see me! U know where the library is, come distract me [winking emoji]_

 **_K:_ ** _I dont want to bother you if your studying. We can hang out later, if you want_

 **_L:_ ** _[a single tear emoji]_

 **_K:_ ** _The sad face has zero effect on me, Lance_

 **_L:_ ** _What if I offer you something??? [eye emojis]_

 **_K:_ ** _Like what?_

Lance pauses to consider whether or not it's stupid to take a selfie of himself making a kissy face to send to his boyfriend. ….That's a decision he can make after he sees how embarrassing the photo is.

He opens the camera, phone already poised in front of him when he swipes it to the front camera - because if he is good at one thing it is taking selfies, alright? He knows how to hold himself, how to angle the camera. The lighting in here isn't great. Lance scoots back his chair and moves over to the huge window pane, into the chill creeping off the glass. The natural light filtered in through the clouds is much better than the damp yellowing bulbs overhead.

Lance purses his lips - tries not to smile like an idiot - and snaps a pic.

"You're kidding me, right?"

Lance squeaks. Drops his phone. Swears to god he feels heat rush up from his guts and into his face as he kneels to scoop the phone up from where it cracks against the window sill and then bounces to the carpet-covered concrete floor. When he peeks over the edge of the table, he finds Pidge standing on the other side of it with his notebook and photocopies in hand, thoroughly unimpressed.

He wasn't paying attention to where they were.

"Lance, you're supposed to be working!"

"I was! I was - Oh, c'mon, gimme a break, Pidge!"

"Looks like you're already taking one. Did you even finish your history questions?"

"I... started them!"

"I've been gone ten minutes!"

"You're supposed to be quiet in the library…!" Lance theater whispers this, crawling back into his chair at the table, surreptitiously glancing at his phone beneath his seat.

To hell with it.

He swipes his thumb over the screen; sends the photo.

Pidge's hand swoops out of nowhere and wrenches the phone away.

"Hey!"

"You asked for my help, so you're getting it whether you like it or not," Pidge says, darting out of Lance's reach. He plunks down in his chair across the table, eyebrows scrunched in determination. Emanating that challenging, no-nonsense vibe that Lance reads loud and clear.

"Pidge, gimme back my phone," Lance says, his own irritation riling in contact with Pidge's.

Pidge wordlessly sets the phone face-down on the stack of books on his opposite side and folds his arms, glasses flashing. Lance frowns right back, his hand still held out across the table. The phone buzzes, skating half an inch across the book.

Lance cuts his eyes toward it.

As long as he's mad, Pidge is going to be mad….

Lance makes an effort to relax. He breathes out, soothes his own prickly feelings away into something cool and calm, though no less determined. Lets that feeling bleed out of himself and into Pidge. Feels the perfectly compartmentalized tension uncoil some, sees it ease out of his friend's expression - only for a moment. Lance feels a quiet thrill of victory, and then a sharp stab of fresh irritation, as harsh as a blow, doubled as Pidge's tiny hand darts out to smack his into the tabletop.

"Knock that off!"

"Ow! _What?"_

"You know what, Lance!"

"I -"

Lance's phone buzzes again.

"Pidge, c'mon, it's Keith!"

"Who else are you going to make gross faces at, Lance?" Pidge asks, exasperated, "I know who it is, I'm not an idiot."

He picks up the phone, glances at the message displayed on the lock screen, and smirks.

"He says 'You're dumb' and 'I'm outside'. Does he know you're not at home?"

Lance's stomach drops.

Keith is outside? Does he need permission to come in? This is a public space, surely he can just walk through the door like at the diner, or the general store. Lance turns his head slightly, finding the thread of Keith's emotions with ease - tiny sparks of warmth lighting him up and setting him apart from the grey afternoon and the dull, milling people around him.

A smile tugs at Lance's lips without him realizing it.

"… Lance!"

Pidge knocks the corner of his phone against the table, snapping Lance out of his reverie. There's a faint churn of jealousy there. Lance latches onto it with some guilt, doesn't let Pidge tuck it back into the neat folders of his feelings, but holds it out in the open so he can remind Pidge that he has nothing to worry about. It's just a flicker, there and then gone.

Pidge rolls his eyes, huffs at him, "Text your stupid boyfriend." And drops the phone onto the table.

Lance grabs it up, grinning.

"Look, I can do both, alright? I'm the king of multitasking!"

"I'll believe that when I see it."

But there's a tiny hint of a smirk and, more importantly, a plume of something brighter than before that has Lance smiling full-out. He jumps up, phone in hand, "I'll be right back, okay?"

"Fine. I need to go make more photocopies, anyway. You need all the notes I can give you."

Maybe that's his punishment.

Lance will take it.

He has to force himself to simply walk to the front of the library instead of running. There are two women behind the desk, an elderly lady checking people out and her progeny filling a cart with recently-returned books needing to be reshelved. Lance spots Keith through the front windows well before he pulls open the door into the little glass lobby. The pressure thumps the outside door open, and Keith looks around, locks eyes with him and smiles a little.

Lance opens the other door and steps out onto the sidewalk, unable to contain his own smile.

"Hey," he says, holding the door open, "Do you need me to - can you come in, or -?"

Keith blinks.

"What? Oh, no, I can! I just, uh…"

 _"Just uh?"_ Lance prompts.

Keith's eyes dart away from his, his eyebrows creasing, hands tucked firmly into the fold of his arms. Lance doesn't need him to say it when he can feel the sentiment so clearly. He doesn't want to invade Lance's time with his friends, and that wars at once with his desire to spend time with Lance - and the well-hidden longing to be included that he has tamped down so fiercely Lance can barely pick it out.

Lance reaches out to wrestle Keith's hand away from himself and pulls him into the library.

"C'mon, Pidge doesn't care. Well," Lance amends under his breath as he catches sight of Pidge at the front desk, turning his head away, flickering and uncertain. Keith drops his other hand from where he was attempting a tiny wave in greeting, his insides churning up, as well. Lance struggles to smooth them out, voice bright, projecting his own happiness into an honest statement, "He doesn't care as long as I finish my homework. C'mon, Keith."

Keith lets Lance lead him to the little nest of tables hidden between the bookshelves. And lets Lance pull him beyond them, into the dimly lit rows at the back of the library that so few people frequent (as if there are ever more than ten people in the library at a time, anyway). The non-fiction/history section has a corner beside the fire exit where the wall protrudes to make space for the event rooms, where the Knitting Brigade meets every Tuesday at 3, soccer moms hold their infamous Book Club, and the library hosts reading events in the summer to get kids interested.

There's virtually no traffic.

One of the overhead bulbs has blown with no one bothering to notice, creating a dim and private space.

Lance pulls Keith into the corner by the lapels of his jacket, until his back bumps the wall.

"Pidge is making a million photocopies of his chemistry notes," Lance explains, sensing Keith's reluctance, "So we've got a few minutes. If you wanted - if you wanted to… I dunno…"

He trails off into a mumble, embarrassed as he realizes that he didn't _ask_ what Keith wanted. He _knows_ what Keith _wants._ Can feel that heat bubbling beneath his worry and hesitation, the press of his body as Keith remains close, almost pinning him to the wall. But he focused on that - on the thought of kissing Keith again, and Keith _wanting_ to kiss him - when he should have focused more on the moment.

Keith's eyes almost seem to glow in the dimness. He glances back toward the front of the building, but his hands are resting on Lance's waist, his fingers curling up into the hem of Lance's sweater.

"He's seriously not mad, Keith," Lance says again, pressing the reassurance even if it doesn't get him kissed in the end, "He's just being Pidge. Do you wanna go sit down…?"

"No."

It's firm, decisive.

Lance's heart kicks in his chest.

Keith looks at him, nails him down with those storm-dark eyes, and smirks.

"I came here to distract you, didn't I?"

He lifts the hand that isn't curled into Lance's sweater, slips it up between them to cup Lance's face. His thumb brushes over Lance's bottom lip. It's deliberate. Almost predatory. Lance's breath shakes out, and if he wasn't busy eating up this sudden energy burning off of Keith, he would be embarrassed about the way the exhale turns into a giggle.

"I _did_ say I'd give you something," he says, fingers working at the front of Keith's jacket to get it open.

Keith's intensity breaks, just like that. He can't keep it up. He laughs softly and leans in, pressing his lips firmly against Lance's, and that electric sensation bolts to their feet. Lance feels it two ways. The swoop of his own stomach as Keith licks into his mouth, the kick of Keith's heart when Lance pulls up his shirt to slide his hands over Keith's belly.

He explores every inch of Keith's skin in the heated space between their bodies. Runs his fingers along the waistband of his jeans, over his belly button, the sharp V of his hips and the dip of his abdomen. Keith's stomach quivers and jumps. He pants against Lance's mouth, dives right back in, teeth tugging at Lance's lip, lapping up his small sounds.

Lance figures out what he likes very quickly. Where Keith wants to be touched, _how_ he wants to be touched. Lance can feel every tingle of keen interest, the way it flares and dulls as his hands move, mapping Keith from sternum to waist, from front to back. Lance scratches lightly over the curve of Keith's ribs. The resulting spark is almost blinding, a heat that blazes under Keith's skin, a quickening of his heartbeat.

The rush as those feelings coarse through Lance's body is electrifying, better than anything he's ever felt.

So Lance does it again.

He teases his bunt nails from the dip of Keith's spine to the arch of his sides, and Keith holds his breath, poised against his open mouth.

Lance can't help feeling proud of himself.

"You like that, huh?" he asks, surprised by the husky quality of his own voice.

He drags his nails back and forth up Keith's back, scratching harder in places and lighter in others, smoothing the flat of his hands down the gently raised tracks in his skin, effortlessly picking out the pattern of Keith's spreading pleasure. It runs through Lance red-hot. It catches in his lungs and makes him shudder. It's a little overwhelming again.

Feeling Keith's body, along with every sensation. It's -

"A lot," Keith admits. It's a growl. A deep rumble that races up Lance's insides, makes him curl his toes and catch his own breath. "I like it a lot. _Lance."_

He's almost forgotten all about kissing, enthralled as he was in pulling a reaction - and the look on Keith's face is glorious. Eyes vibrant, barely open; cheeks flushed, lips parted until they close over Lance's again.

It's hurried, clumsy.

Keith's hands grip harder at Lance's waist, pull Lance closer as they leap beneath the sweater, pushing it to Lance's chest as they chase up his sides. Keith drops his body forward, and it's their naked stomachs pressing together that makes Lance gasp, that punches out a low noise from the back of his throat. 

It's thrilling and _new_ and Lance's body catches in a painfully slow burn. A nuclear plant melting down. A star going supernova.

Keith grips his thighs, hoists him up with no warning or thought or effort - a thrill that shoots deep into Lance gut, and lower. Their stomachs rub together and Keith slots their hips firmly, at just the right angle, jolting sparks and sharp noises. Held breath and rocking hips.

Lance rakes Keith's scalp, gripping his hair, and Keith sucks a red mark into Lance's skin, below his jaw where anyone can see. Keith moans, low and steady, and Lance clamps his hand down over his own mouth to stifle the thready, breathless sound that comes out.

There's a loud _thunk_ that makes the wall vibrate.

Lance's whole body jumps, every muscle pulled tight, every nerve alight. Keith stops rutting into the heat between Lance's legs and pants against his neck. His grip slips, and Lance drops his unsteady legs to the floor, upright only because of the way Keith presses into him and the vice-like grip Lance has on his shoulders.

It's like a curtain going up.

It is not just Keith and Lance alone in a dark corner of the library. There's a book on the floor at the base of the wall, rumpled and open-faced, and the person who threw it on the other side of the bookshelf. It takes Lance half a second to recognize that it's Pidge. He can't see him. But his own skin itches with Pidge's irate second-hand embarrassment - though that is foggy and well underneath the pleasant numbness thrumming through his own veins.

 _"You're loud,"_ Pidge hisses through the bookshelf, "In every _possible_ way, you are being _loud,_ Lance."

"O-oh. Oh."

The noise trembles, half-involuntary. It sounds filthy and loud in the sudden quiet between his and Keith's harsh breaths. Lance blushes. He tries to say something, but the only thing that comes out are other half-noises. _Ohs_ and _Ahs_ and _Ums_ as his shaking body winds down reluctantly from that sudden catapulting high that it didn't quite get to reach. It almost _hurts._

_"Lance. Seriously."_

"S-sorry," Lance manages, a hand covering his face. He has to push at Keith gently to get him to step away so Lance will stop rocking into him. Keith doesn't go far, stays tucked up against Lance's neck, a breathing furnace over his skin. "Sorry. ...Sorry."

He doesn't know what else to say.

Thinking is hard.

"Just knock it off before someone comes back here," Pidge grumbles, and Lance barely picks up on his hasty retreat, muffled in the carpet.

Lance bites back a whine or a groan, something in between. He rubs his hand over his face. Tries to get ahold of himself but he's breathing so _hard_ and _god_ he aches. He was being _loud._ He was letting himself just _feel everything_ and it got away from him again. He hasn't let that happen in weeks, and it seems like he is slipping backwards instead of reaping the benefits of his still new and occasionally overwhelming powers.

What the hell would this even feel like to other people? Would it be vague, like the buzz of excitement or the moodiness that he has accidentally projected at school, or would it be something more… precise?

Is it all the good things he feels or is it a general sense of horniness because _god_ that's embarrassing either way, he does not want to be doing that.

He has to consciously shut others out, or shut himself in. It's easier now, but he still has to concentrate. He thought he _was_ concentrating. On _Keith._ And it was flooding out anyway. How is he supposed to stay focused when Keith is _distracting_ him and making him feel so good that he can't even think?

Should he ask his mom? Or Rachel?

 _He doesn't want to talk to his mom about this._ And Rachel would be a nightmare….

Lance sighs loudly, presses his face into Keith's hair.

His rampant thoughts have given his body a chance to cool down, at least. Keith's breaths are still noisy, though, almost too faint to hear except that they're tucked right beneath Lance's ear.

"This wasn't a good idea," Keith whispers.

He sounds different.

Lance glances down at the mess of black hair beneath his chin. He lifts his hands to brush Keith's cheeks, dips his thumb against the corner of Keith's mouth and feels the fang protruding from his gum and over his bottom lip. Keith tenses, doesn't even dare to breathe.

"Hey. It's okay," Lance murmurs, "Do you need to -?"

"No."

"Keith."

"I'm fine, Lance."

"When are you gonna stop telling me you're fine when I can tell that you're not?"

The hunger is _there_ now that Lance takes a second to look - not as ravenous as it was, but still obvious. It's a different shade today. Tinged with frustration. This happened last time they got worked up. Maybe they both got a little carried away…

Slowly, Keith steps back, adjusting his clothes. His face isn't doing anything vampire-like once he swipes his hand across it, no jewel shard eyes and pointy fangs. Lance is almost disappointed. Keith is _so beautiful_ and he doesn't even know it.

Keith glances toward the shelf, maybe as an excuse to avert his eyes when Lance brushes and tugs his own clothes back into order. His belly is cold from where his sweater has been rucked up, and Lance is almost positive (and it utterly embarrassed to realize) that he's made some kind of mess in his boxers. His legs feel like jello. His heart is still out of rhythm.

He didn't actually _get there_ but that doesn't seem to have stopped his body from making the effort.

Lance just wants to go _home._

Preferably with Keith…. Preferably to an empty house.

"Should I go?" Keith asks quietly.

His hand has snuck out, fingers pressing between Lance's, not quite holding on. Lance weaves their hands together, abating any fear he has.

"Only if you want to," Lance says, offering up a sheepish chuckle, "Pidge can't get madder. And it can't get any more awkward. So you might as well stay and watch me get bullied into doing my homework."

"Guess I don't have anything better to do," Keith says, with a tiny smirk.

The walk of shame - Lance has to admit - would be a lot less shameful if he had actually gotten off instead of having the whole thing spoiled. Whether through divine intervention, or because Lance being _loud_ cleared everyone out, they don't encounter anyone else on their way back to the table.

Pidge makes a face at them.

Says, "Gross."

And silently agrees to never speak of it again.

\--x--

Lance's bedroom light is on.

It's always on - the heavy sheet pulled aside in invitation, painting a bright square on the dark, frost-covered lawn - a beacon for the weary and wandering. Keith skirts it with silent footsteps. He climbs up onto the air unit and then makes the deft leap up to the window, catching on the sill with both hands and heaving himself up enough to peer through it.

It slides open before he even touches it, warmth rushing over his cold cheeks.

"Hey, you."

Lance says it all in a rush, smile a mile wide as he backs up to give Keith the space he needs to pull himself in through the window.

Keith matches his smile effortlessly.

"Hey, Lance."

He sits folded in the window to pull off his boots and leaves them propped in their usual place against the wall. Lance has already cut off the overhead light and retreated back to his bed, his bare feet and legs disappearing in a flash under the plush comforter that he crowds up around his face. Keith closes the window on the exceptionally chilly night, shrugs off his jacket, and pulls the curtain closed before climbing in alongside him.

The room is familiar and comfortable, the pale man-made constellations glowing overhead. Lance chuckles, opening his arms to draw Keith in close, "Nice of you to finally join me."

"Shiro was still up," Keith explains. Carefully, he puts a hand on Lance's waist, thumb rubbing his hip through the fabric. "I didn't want him to hear me sneaking out."

"What's he gonna do, ground you?" Lance teases.

Keith shrugs.

It's not like Shiro would have stopped him if Keith had told him where he was going. Keith is 18 and technically an adult who can make his own choices, and Shiro respects that… despite some of the choices. Sneaking into his boyfriend's room in the middle of the night is not at the top of the list of terrible things Keith has done. But he still didn't say anything. Maybe he's gotten _too_ used to keeping secrets… He keeps worrying he's only shutting people out.

That if they do leave him, eventually, it's his own fault.

Keith bleeds these things over into Lance without meaning to, unable to help the roiling of his own emotions. He only notices because Lance's playful smile slips down right in front of his eyes.

"Sorry," Keith murmurs.

"Hey." Lance's hand comes up to cup his face, to tilt his chin back up when Keith drops his gaze. Keith gets caught at once in Lance's blue eyes, the warmth of his hand, the gentle but firm tide of his emotions as he bends them to soothe. "Don't be sorry for feeling things. Just don't bottle them up like that, okay? Talk to me. How many times I gotta tell you?"

"One more, I guess."

Keith lets a small smile tug at his lips, and is delighted by the burst of laughter Lance lets out across his face. Lance's arm drapes around his shoulders, pulling Keith tighter into his space, as if there was any distance between them before. His legs hook around Keith's, and their noses are already touching, breath already mingling and quick with anticipation.

"So," Lance asks, "You wanna talk?"

Keith hums, pretends to consider. "Not really. I had something else in mind."

"Oh?"

The bright pop of Lance's delight infects Keith as well. He's like a soda can waiting to burst. It has Keith grinning, almost laughing, "Yeah. I mean, if you want to."

"I want to. What kinda question is that?"

"You don't even know what I'm asking yet."

"Was it, maybe, I dunno... about kissing me or something?"

"Maybe."

_"Maybe?"_

"Maybe."

Keith thinks about kissing Lance a lot, actually.

That first time on the bridge, and every time after, and all the times they could have but didn't.

That's something else that Keith can get lost in: Lance's chuckle, suddenly deep - the way it rumbles between their chests and settles in Keith's ribs, only to get swept away by the soft press their mouths meeting, too eager to wait, to draw the banter out any longer. There isn't any expectation in the way Lance kisses him. There's no heat, no urgency. It's just Lance, wanting to be close to him, wanting to love him, and letting him know it.

Keith returns that feeling full-force.

He kisses Lance back. They're both still clumsy and uncoordinated, but they find their rhythm quickly enough around a few awkward giggles and bumped noses. Lance's tongue dips out first to taste Keith's mouth, and Keith obliges with a contented hum. Their legs curl together, bodies pressing close. Lance's fingers thread into Keith's hair, caressing and tugging, and Keith's hands slip beneath the tail of Lance's nightshirt, seeking warmth that his own body lacks.

Lance jolts the second Keith meets bare skin.

"Jesus!" he yelps, hands dropping to close around Keith's, to lift them away. Keith does not mask his disappointment quick enough and Lance pounces on it. "No! Sorry, your hands are cold! Freezing!" He feels them, gropes them between his own hands, and looks up. "Keith… are you hungry?"

"No," Keith says.

But he's not retaining warmth the way he should, apparently. And now that Lance isn't distracting him, he does feel the weight of his fangs in his mouth. Damnit. His own tongue glances over them. He's surprised he didn't nick Lance's lip again, and is glad that he didn't. He still remembers the heady rush that swept through his veins - how _alive_ he felt, how much he _wanted_ \- the copper taste that was Lance, in his purest essence, covering his tongue - and is immediately sick with himself.

Lance doesn't let him draw back.

He holds Keith fast, hands swiftly moving up to Keith's elbows to see that he stays close, head tilting on the pillow in a silent plea for Keith to look at him. Keith could get away if he really wanted to. But he doesn't. He settles. He steadies his breathing.

He just wants to keep kissing Lance….

He feels hungry _all the time._ Why does it matter?

"You're knotting yourself up again," Lance says, a gentle tease but earnest nonetheless, "It's fine if you need it, Keith. You're not hurting me. How many times are you gonna make me say it? Just one more?"

Keith doesn't answer, just huffs out a half-hearted laugh.

He does not look at the bruise on Lance's throat.

He has understandable reservations, okay? Lance is slowly working him into a place of comfort, though, and Keith's resolve to not feed from Lance again crumbles more and more easily every time. He's afraid of how easy it is to give in. Afraid he won't be able to hold himself back. Lance says he could stop him, if he had to, but a part of Keith wonders if he was just saying that because he can't bear to watch Keith starve himself because of what he is.

He's not starving now.

He's _hungry,_ yeah. But it's only been a few days since the last time.

He shouldn't need it again so soon.

Keith is starting to think that this is just his body's natural reaction to _Lance,_ because every time they get close like this, any time they get a little bit intimate, Keith _swears_ he can smell the rush of Lance's blood beneath his skin. Can hear the pounding of his heart. And then his mouth gets heavy, and colors and sounds fracture like a thousand pinpoints of light. He is aware of the firmness of Lance's skin, the richness of his scent on his tongue, the exact kind of pressure it would take to puncture.

Keith hates himself for the way he _wants._ Is frustrated because he just wants to be close to Lance without this weighing on his conscience.

And Lance can sense every one of those ugly things knotting up inside of him, so Keith feels guilty for letting them show, and those knots pull in all the tighter. Lance works carefully to ease them apart. Trust edging in where all his fears are. Love squeezing into the thinnest gaps. Reassurance and understanding and acceptance mellowing out all of Keith's confusion, all his uncertainty, until the tension he was holding inside and out relaxes, allowing him to sink into Lance's embrace.

Keith finds his face in Lance's neck, breathing in the coconut smell of his body lotion.

One of Lance's hands cradles the back of Keith's head, fingers hopelessly lost in the tangle of his dark hair. The other hand runs up and down Keith's arm, where it's draped over Lance's waist.

"If it'll ease your mind," Lance says, "I had a big hearty supper just a few hours ago. And there are snacks in the bedside drawer. And it's not like I'm planning on going anywhere anyway, at this time of night. I'm good to just lay here and snuggle, Keith."

Keith huffs out another small laugh in answer.

Lance smiles against the crown of his head.

"We can keep making out, if you want," he suggests, "Y'know, to kind of… build up to it a little. Or you can just go in for it, it doesn't matter. I dunno if that makes it weird, it's not like a - a sexual thing or anything, I just want you to be comfortable, y'know? And I kinda think it's cute when your fangs are poking out. I -"

He's rambling, and he falters when Keith pulls back a little to look at him. Lance's bottom lip disappears as he pulls it between his teeth. How is Keith supposed to resist that?

"I want to… keep kissing and stuff… first. If that's okay with you, Lance," Keith says, dropping the words against Lance's cheek.

"Definitely okay," Lance gusts out, relieved and happy, spreading that feeling between the two of them like sunshine after a warm rain, "Whatever you want. I'm totally fine with whatever, Keith."

He turns his head, catching the corner of Keith's mouth and then catching him firmly as Keith turns his head to meet him. It gets a bit more heated than their other kisses were. They are still soft and clumsy in places, both of them being mindful of where Keith's teeth are and how hard they press, but they grow open-mouthed, tongues darting, breath chasing, all the same. Any hesitation gets whisked away as their bodies slot together, tangling the sheets, hands searching and grasping.

Keith breaks away first to skim Lance's jaw. He presses into Lance's warmth. He hesitates, but Lance goes willingly, rolling into his back and pulling Keith with him, baring his neck as Keith settles his weight on his elbows and knees. One of Lance's legs bends and rests against Keith's hip, the other outstretched between Keith's thighs. His restless hands dance up Keith's biceps, over his shoulders, into his hair.

There is a pleasant swoop low in Keith's gut, pooling between his legs, sparking sweet and sharp against all the places Lance is touching him. He doesn't want to ruin this… but he ought to do it now, before he loses his nerve.

Lance's blood rushes beneath the surface of his skin, flushing his cheeks and his throat from dark brown to ruddy red. Keith tracks the movement with his mouth. He skims his lips up Lance's neck to the dip of his pulse below his jaw and pauses there, counting the hurried beats, measuring the steady rhythm, feeling Lance's chest expand against his; a deep breath before he exhales, _"Keith."_

His fangs poke his bottom lip.

His mouth waters.

Keith swallows hard and parts his lips, cupping the heat over Lance's racing pulse, listening to the way the action snags at his breath. There isn't the faintest hint of fear. Lance is totally pliant beneath him, and Keith knows it isn't the thrall of his vampirism - that thing he does to cats that makes them not run away from him. It is undiluted trust, the faintest curl of anticipation, that Lance shares with him, as if begging Keith to trust himself, to understand that it's okay to be what he is. It's okay to have wants and needs, and to take them as long as Lance is giving them.

It's the photograph, it's _this is what you look like from my perspective,_ all over again.

Keith doesn't really need more encouragement than that. He plants a kiss on Lance's neck, then lower, again and again, until he reaches the bruise he has already left at the base of Lance's throat.

His fangs pierce Lance's skin as easily as if it were paper, only the slightest bit of resistance before they sink right in. Lance jumps, make a tiny noise. His hands still; his lips part, breath held. Keith bares down, not harder but deeper, instinctively lifting a hand to Lance's chest to hold him in place even though he doesn't need to. Lance relaxes again all at once. He breathes out, slow and steady. His fingers move, carding through Keith's hair, gripping into his shirt sleeve and rubbing along the round firmness of muscle underneath. 

Keith carefully removes his fangs and blood wells to the surface of the puncture marks, washes over his tongue in a delicious flood. Keith drinks without thinking. On autopilot, instincts kicking in full force. He keeps his mouth closed over the wound, tongue coaxing the blood to flow, breathing through his nose in between deep swallows. He is aware of little else. The buzzing in his own veins as he borrows Lance's life and vitality, the soft sound of Lance's breathing in his ear.

He has fed fairly recently, and it doesn't take much to make him feel sated. Keith soothes his tongue over the marks, sealing them, chasing the last lingering taste of copper and _Lance_ with the very tip of his tongue _._ When he pulls away, panting, the bruise is darker than ever against Lance's brown skin, a rich shade of violet and blue that shifts as Lance's throat constricts around a swallow.

Keith runs his tongue over his teeth. His fangs have retracted, and the colors and sounds aren't as sharp.

"You okay -?"

"Is that better -?"

Their questions come out on top of one another. There's a confused pause. Then laughter.

There's a noise in the hall, a creak of movement.

Keith's heart launches into his throat. Lance clamps a hand over his mouth, gripping onto him tightly so he doesn't bolt. When Lance moves to get up, Keith allows himself to be pushed back so Lance can climb over him and out of bed. Lance swoons before he gets fully upright, though, and has to catch himself against the nightstand, nearly falls out in the floor.

"Woah there…! Keith, I'm fine!" Lance adds hastily. He bats away Keith's hands when he reaches out to steady him, muttering under his breath, "I'm fine, I'm just checking the door!"

Lance drops his hand to the corner of the mattress, then the dresser, on his way across the small room, and then he leans heavily against the doorframe. Keith can't tell if he's resting or listening. Keith is listening. But he doesn't hear anything else, other than the lock on the bedroom door _snicking_ as Lance turns it.

"Just the house settling." His movements are slow and deliberate as he climbs back into bed. Keith reaches out to steady him again and Lance slumps across him with a grateful sigh, burrowing down into the blankets and pillows. "Are you staying the night?" he asks once he's settled, his arm around Keith's chest, their heads sharing space on one of the pillows.

"That was the plan, wasn't it?"

"It was. Just checking."

Lance closes his eyes, his brow scrunched up. Keith lifts his hand to rest his palm over Lance's forehead, smoothing back his short bangs. Lance hums, tension bleeding out.

"My head is pounding," he admits, then, "Not your fault! I got up too fast. I'll be fine in a sec…"

"Can I get you anything?" Keith asks, feeling responsible no matter what Lance says.

"No, I'm okay." Lance smiles, bringing Keith's other hand up so they're both cradled against his face. He giggles, probably so lightheaded that he feels silly. "You're hands are warming up now~"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Wanting to make Lance laugh, wanting to make him feel better, Keith drops his hands back down to Lance's waist and tucks them underneath the hem of his shirt, where he wanted them in the first place.

It works. Lance laughs softly.

That pressure Keith was feeling that came from Lance, subconsciously, eases.

The smooth plains of his lower back sear Keith's palms. Lance's laughter changes pitch. The slight pressure has him arching forward into Keith's body, their chests and stomachs flush together, that electric sensation swooping low once more. Lance's knee nudges between Keith's thighs, and Keith has the wild urge to dip his hands lower, into the back of Lance shorts, just to see what Lance would do, if Lance would let him. To hear what kind of sound he might make and feel the firm give of muscle beneath his fingers.

His face burns the second this quick succession of images flashes through his mind, his embarrassment a blaring alarm that Lance feels as acutely as if it were his own. He's not a mind reader like his sister. But he's pretty damn close. He bashfully hides his face in Keith's neck. His own arms are wrapped around Keith's chest, and his leg hitches up an inch higher against Keith's waist.

Despite the clear but hesitant invitation, Keith isn't bold enough to do it.

They've touched each other before.

Mostly through their clothes and under their shirts.

The fleeting, curious glances of hands that aren't sure where to go or what to do - if this is too much too fast - shrinking back at the first startled reaction, too shy and too inexperienced to commit, or else plunging in head-first into the overwhelming sensations. They can't seem to find a happy middle ground. Whenever they do, something inevitably derails them.

And now it's Lance's pounding head and Keith's sudden nerves.

Lance sighs, expelling all of the air in his lungs. He tucks his face into Keith's neck again, his body is slack, wound around Keith's. After a moment he stifles a yawn. Keith feels the way his jaw works as Lance presses it against Keith's shoulder, feels the tell-tale shudder of his body and the way his breath draws in and sighs out again. Keith smiles, nuzzling Lance's temple. He lets his hand slide up, rubbing Lance's back, following the dip of his spine.

"Get some sleep, Lance."

Lance is barely stifling another yawn, "Are you - ahh man - are you sure? You just got here."

"It's fine. It's kinda late."

"Are you gonna sleep? Or did you sleep today?"

"I'll sleep with you," Keith says, because he probably will.

He did sleep today. Despite the cold that has swept in after sunset, the day was sunny and bright, and Keith hid in his room with the windows blacked out, curled beneath the comforter, until Shiro coaxed him out to watch a movie on the sofa. The blinds in the living room were drawn, so Keith had complied, happy to just spend some time with him. He will just as happily wile away his whole night napping if it means he gets to spend it with Lance.

"So lame," Lance mumbles, squeezing him a little tighter. He puffs out another laugh that warms Keith's throat.

"You talkin' about yourself, sleepy?"

"Mmh. Maybe."

Keith chuckles. "Goodnight, Lance."

"G'night, Keith."

Lance doesn't fall asleep right away. True to his nature, he blurts out any small thing that comes to mind and they talk intermittently, laughing softly, for more than an hour. Lance dozes off during a lapse in the conversation. His head is resting on Keith's bicep, and Keith's fingers are going numb. But he keeps his arm curled around Lance's head, gently stroking his hair and watching his face in the fading light cast by the glowing stars overhead.

\--

Keith has liked Lance for a long time, alright?

He never thought Lance would ever like him back the same way that he likes Lance, and the fact that Lance _does_ \- unconditionally, undeniably - is almost incomprehensible to Keith. Sometimes he feels like he died when his dad did, and everything that has happened since has been the afterlife, punishing and rewarding him in unpredictable patterns. Mostly, it feels like a punishment.

Lance makes him feel real, and wanted, and loved in a way that Keith hasn't felt in a long time - or maybe in a way that is entirely new, entirely unique, entirely _Lance._ And Keith has so many ugly things bottled up inside of him... Lance is the only one who's ever seen them, and none of it has turned him away. He _trusts Keith,_ even when Keith doesn't trust himself.

Even when he doesn't deserve it.

\--

Shiro _does_ give him The Talk.

And the timing is perfectly calculated too, when Keith's guard is down.

Sometimes, Keith cleans the kitchen at 2 in the morning.

He gets bored, so he wipes down every surface just to burn up some time, straightening up the cabinets, finding stray lids to the tupperware, lining up the glasses largest to smallest from back to front, stacking the plates according to weight. He's glad to have a space to move around in, but nights like this it feels sort of like being in a fish tank in a dark room - with no one around to see, Keith putters about the house, seeking out things to do. It helps him de-stress. Helps him clear his head.

Helps him not miss Lance so much.

The nights he gets to spend with Lance are infinitely better than the nights he spends alone.

But Keith doesn't want to hang around so much that he gets on Lance's nerves; wants to give Lance space to be himself, or be with his friends, or his family. And Keith does enjoy the quiet. The freedom that comes without the obligation to interact with another person. It eases his mind being alone and just _knowing_ that Shiro is somewhere nearby, even if he's sleeping. The apartment is steadily growing more familiar - the low murmuring from close neighbors through thin walls, the thrum of the heat kicking on, the pops and creaks of the building settling and the occasional hiss of downtown traffic.

The squeak of hinges down the hallway and the faint groan of the floorboards under Shiro's weight as he walks to the bathroom, cuts on the light, closes the door.

Keith pulls his upper half out of one of the lower cabinets and sits back on his knees. The contents of the cabinet are arranged all around him in neat stacks, smaller pots and pans sunk into larger ones. Was he making too much noise? He slides them back into the cabinet, quickly and silently. He just manages to get the cabinet door closed and stand when the toilet flushes and the sink turns on. For a moment, Keith waits to see if Shiro will just go back to bed. The apartment is dark; Keith never turns the lights on when he's awake by himself, so there's nothing to give him away.

Shiro's footsteps come down the hall, anyway.

Keith panics.

He darts to the sink to pluck a glass from the dish drainer and turns the faucet a second before the standing lamp in the living room clicks on, throwing light between the two rooms.

Shiro lowers his hand and stands there, squinting into the shadows of the kitchen. Keith fills the glass with water that he can't drink and maybe tries too hard to make the action seem natural. He realizes, belatedly, that he's still in his faded jeans and a black t-shirt.

"Keith?" Shiro's voice is rough from sleep. He reaches up to scratch the stubble peppering his chin, blinks like he's trying to get awake. "Are you still up?"

"I was just getting some water," Keith says, cradling the cool glass between his hands.

"I thought I heard banging or something."

"Might have been the neighbors." Keith suggests it, feeling guilty.

Shiro hums in acknowledgement, casts his gaze around the living room.

Keith steps out of the kitchen, but hesitates before slinking back down the hall. He doesn't _forget_ that his brother is dealing with stuff, too. He just sometimes gets so caught up in his own stuff, and between himself and Lance, a lot has happened lately…

When was the last time he asked if Shiro was okay?

"Hey," Keith says softly, and Shiro looks at him, his dark eyes shining in the yellow lamplight, "Shiro…"

"I'm fine, Keith." Shiro knows the question is coming and he has a warm smile ready to reassure. That's genetic, Keith thinks. They both like to say their fine no matter what, except Keith gets huffy about it. "I don't want to keep you up."

"I'm not tired." It's as honest as Keith can be. He's always been a mostly-nocturnal type anyway, and his condition only makes it worse. He'll get tired closer to morning and sleep most of the time that the sun is up. "Did you have a nightmare or something?"

"Nothing like that," Shiro says, "Just one of those nights, I guess."

He shrugs and moves over to sit on the couch. Keith follows him, carrying the glass of water. Shiro actually sinks back into the cushions with a sigh, rubs his hand over his face, while Keith perches on the edge of the seat and watches him - at least until his phone buzzes unexpectedly in his back pocket.

The only one who would be texting him in Lance. But it's the middle of the night.

Keith pulls his phone out and swipes the screen.

It is a text from Lance:

_woke up and missed u. Rip_

Along with a selfie that is barely discernible due to the absolute lack of light. Keith turns the contrast up to figure out what he's seeing. It's Lance with his arm thrown over his head, hair mussed as he lays among the pillows. He's pouting at the camera, eyes barely open. Keith saves it, doesn't realize that he's smiling as he swipes a reply: _go back to sleep Lance._

 **_L:_ ** _On it [peace sign emoji] [blue heart emoji] [snoozing emoji]_

A tiny laugh huffs out as Keith closes the app.

He looks up, and spots Shiro watching him with this fond, knowing look. Heat floods Keith's face. He quickly looks down, sloshes his water precariously, fumbles with turning his phone around and sliding it back into his pocket.

"Lance?" Shiro guesses.

"Yeah," Keith mumbles. He lifts the glass of water to his mouth habitually, not actually intending to take a drink. His stomach already feels like rioting.

Shiro hums again.

It is no indication at all of the words about to come out of his mouth:

"Do you need condoms?"

Keith sputters, inhales some water, and chokes and coughs as he sloshes half of it down his front. He is bent, wheezing, against his knees when Shiro leans up to thump him on the back.

When he gets his voice back, he rasps,

_"No."_

He turns his red face toward the wall so he doesn't have to bear the embarrassment of looking at Shiro directly, still wracked with throat-tearing coughs that he covers up with his fist. Lucky or not, all of the water went into his lungs instead of his stomach.

Shiro laughs, "Okay. Just asking."

It's good natured rather than sarcastic.

Keith has never figured out how Shiro manages to do that.

"It just seems like you guys might be getting a little more serious lately," Shiro says, in a more somber tone, "I just want to make sure you're being safe, you know?"

Keith struggles to clear his lungs. "We're not doing anything."

"Sure. Okay."

"We're _not."_

"You know, I was a teenager myself once."

Keith groans and leans forward against his knees to better hide his face. Maybe he can curl up tight enough to disappear. He really does not want to have this conversation. Not with Shiro. Not when he's doing that dumb, silly thing where he - intentionally or not - sounds more like an old man reminiscing about the golden days of his youth than a twenty-five year old.

"I'm just saying, Keith," Shiro laughs. His hand is on Keith's back again, patting affectionately. Keith sets his glass down on the floor and wraps his hands around the back of his knees, face still firmly hidden. "You can talk to me about anything. If you have any questions - or if you just want some privacy. This is your home, too. You're allowed to bring boys home. Just warn me first - "

"Stooooooop, Shiro," Keith moans.

"It's nothing to be embarrassed about, Keith."

"It's a _lot_ to be embarrassed about…"

"Everything you're feeling is perfectly natural - "

"Stooooop. Shiro, seriously. We're not _doing_ anything…."

"Anything _yet?"_

Keith makes a noncommittal noise, muffled against his jeans.

"Is there a reason…?"

Another noncommittal noise.

Shiro hums. Stays quiet. Lets his hand rest on Keith's back. It's casual, and Keith draws some comfort from it despite the awkward conversation.

His hair tickles his face, his breath heating the tiny space. Keith turns his head, forehead pressed against his knees, and stares at the window, the shades pulled across to keep out even the most meager hints of light from the outside. It's late, and it's quiet. Keith has always thought of the middle of the night as a kind of sanctuary. Peaceful. Almost as if time has stopped.

It makes it easier to admit things.

But this is not one of them.

He still hasn't told Shiro about his not-being-totally-human problem. He's scared to, no matter what Lance says to reassure him - _He's worried about you. He loves you._ Keith knows that. It's just hard to shake the fear of being betrayed by his own desperately yearning heart. He doesn't want to be alone anymore. His relationship with Shiro feels tenuous in places, and Keith is afraid that Shiro's love is conditional, and that this will be the thing that breaks it.

"You don't have to talk to me if you don't want to, Keith," Shiro says softly, hand giving his back one final thump before withdrawing.

Keith sits upright, subconsciously chasing the contact. He doesn't look at Shiro, but he does turn his head in Shiro's direction, rubbing his neck and hiding behind his dark hair.

"It's just… weird timing, I guess," Keith mumbles, "We keep trying to… y'know. But… stuff keeps happening. And it's not anything - we're not like - _doing_ anything."

"So it's a… privacy issue."

"I guess, yeah."

"Well, I did say - "

"I know," Keith groans covering his face with his hands, "Don't be weird. That's weird."

"Telling you that this is your space and that you're allowed to want some _privacy_ with your boyfriend is weird, is it?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's out there, anyway."

Keith groans.

"Have you guys talked about your boundaries?"

Keith thinks about it, the heat in his face persisting, fingers dragging along his hairline as his eyes dart across the floor. Boundaries. They haven't talked about boundaries. Is that something they're supposed to establish? They've already gotten pretty heated a few times. Keith has never felt uncomfortable with any of the touching and kissing - has Lance?

Keith thinks he probably would have known.

Lance would have _let_ him know, one way or another. Lance is the one that starts things most of the time. And his Empathy sort of spills out every now and then, particularly when he's feeling strongly about something. He isn't the type to let himself be pushed around, regardless. Still...

"Not… really."

"That might be a good place to start," Shiro suggests. He doesn't sound surprised, more like he is barely suppressing his amusement at Keith's suffering. "It's good to know what you want out of a relationship - and what your partner wants. Helps you get on the same page. Makes things less awkward and confusing down the line."

"That makes sense," Keith admits.

He feels his mouth almost absently, straight non-pointy teeth under plush lips. Boundaries would definitely be a good idea, considering how often his stupid fangs keep popping out and ruining the moment. He doesn't want to hurt Lance… But he does want to kiss him, and hold him, and touch him, and he absolutely wants Lance to kiss him and touch him back.

He's a little afraid of taking things too far.

Maybe finding out exactly what kind of contact Lance is looking for, and comfortable with, would make things less frustrating for them both. Keith berates himself a little bit for having never thought to ask. But then, Lance didn't ask him either. Apart from the occasional _Can I kiss you? Is this okay?_ They don't really get much talking about it done in the moment. They're both super impulsive. Maybe that's not such a good thing, given their peculiar circumstances.

Keith nods, partly to himself, partly to Shiro; chances a glance at his half-brother but still can't bring himself to make eye contact.

"That does kind of help a little. ...Thanks, Shiro."

Shiro beams at him.

"That's what I'm here for." He uses his hand planted against Keith's back to leverage himself up from the couch, ignoring the way Keith grunts in surprise and bends against his knees again. "And if you have any questions on the physical aspects - "

_"No. I don't. Thanks."_

"I'm just saying, it can be scary."

_"Okay, I really don't wanna talk about it."_

"Alright," Shiro laughs, "Alright, I'll leave you alone."

He ruffles Keith's hair. Keith allows it, but glowers underneath his tousled bangs, half-heartedly tries to comb them away from his face.

"Goodnight, Keith."

"Night, Shiro."

"Get some sleep."

"I will."

He won't.

Keith picks his glass up from the floor as he stands, waits for Shiro's bedroom door to close before he pours the water out in the house plant by the window and puts the glass back in the drainer. He cuts off the lamp and goes to his room. And he lays there, missing and thinking about Lance.

\--

"Noooo," Lance says, with all of the air in his lungs. He laughs, almost hysterically. "There's no way. He really tried to give you The Talk?"

"Yeah," Keith says, head down, scuffing his shoes, "Sort of, anyway."

Heavy clouds clot the sky, occasionally drizzling them with a light shower of rain. It's cold, but the cold doesn't bother Keith.

It doesn't seem to bother Nadia and Sylvio, either. They're the only children braving the soaked and frigid public park, sliding on the dewy playground equipment and gathering enough water in their clothes to make their little bodies numb. This especially doesn't seem to bother Nadia. Steam occasionally rises into the air, wafting behind her as she splashes after her brother.

Keith and Lance watch them from the swing set, Lance sitting in the swing to keep himself moving and occupied and Keith standing outside the reach of his long legs. Occasionally, Lance leaps up to play with them and Keith gets roped in along the way. But for the most part it leaves Lance and Keith alone with each other, which means they have a chance to talk - which means Keith had an obligation to bring up his awkward conversation with Shiro the other night.

Lance's sneakers drag into the gravel to slow his momentum, catch his weight.

"Well?" Lance asks.

Keith blinks at him. "Well what?"

"Keith, what did he say!"

"Nothing!" Keith sputters, "Just… asked if we were getting… serious. Or anything."

His voice peters out the further into the sentence he gets, his gaze dropping. Not before he sees Lance's dark face burn red, a perfect mirror to Keith's own blushing cheeks. Keith is surprised when steam doesn't rise up between the two of them.

The chains on the swing jangle as Lance shifts his weight.

"Are… are we?" Lance asks.

 _"Are we?"_ Keith counters.

"What did he mean by _serious?"_ Lance asks, voice rising in bewilderment. They're both pretty sure he meant _sexually_ and not _matrimonially,_ but it bears clarifying.

"I don't know, Lance," Keith huffs, just as uncertain, "I think he just meant… physically. He asked if we were being safe. I told him - "

"We cannot possibly _be_ any safer, we haven't even done anything!"

"I know, I told him that!"

"Oh my god."

Lance covers his face with his hands and leans forward against his outstretched legs. Keith has been there, so he lets Lance have his moment before he brings up the thing that's been weighing on his mind the past couple of days. He decides to just rip it off like a bandaid:

"Should we have boundaries?"

"I think we've got enough boundaries, don't you?" Lance asks without really thinking about the question, throwing his hands.

"I don't mean _obstacles,_ Lance, I meant… things that might be - "

"Overwhelming," Lance says, catching on. His blue eyes are wide, eyebrows slanting down as he thinks. "I - yeah. Yeah, absolutely. Is there - I mean. We haven't really done anything, but was there - is there anything -?"

"No! No I - I'm good. I'm okay with - with everything so far. If you are. I just meant - "

"Oh," Lance breathes out. A tension Keith had barely noticed before eases some. "Okay. Cool. Okay."

"You… don't like being around a lot of people," Keith says, because starting with Lance is easier than saying something about his own feelings, "I mean, you kind of get…"

"Yeah, I know," Lance groans, "It's just a lot. I've been trying."

"I know. I'm not saying - "

"I know."

They lapse into quiet for a few moments. Nadia and Sylvio's playful shrieks and splashing fills the air as they charge around the jungle gym. Lance glances over to check on them. Keith is plucking at the hem of his t-shirt when Lance turns those blue eyes on him.

"I'm not… I'm not trying to harp or like, blame you, or make you feel bad or anything," Lance says, "But if you'd just _eat,_ Keith. It might not be so… much. Y'know?"

Keith doesn't say anything. There's tension budding in his chest, and then it eases up as Lance plucks at it. Maybe he can't resist trying to sooth the hurt. Lance has always been like that, even when they were kids. They grew up in a small town together, went to school together, ran track together.

Keith wasn't lying when he told Lance _I always saw you._

"I know why you don't want to," Lance goes on. He's rocking back and forth on his feet, the chains creaking in a short rhythm. "But I'm definitely not just saying that because it's -"

"I know, Lance," Keith says quietly.

He's not just saying it because Keith's stupid fangs keep getting in the way when they're kissing. Keith can tell he's the only one that has a genuine issue with it, even if Lance hasn't said anything. He doesn't exactly know how to feel about it.

The swing creaks again as Lance pushes his legs straight. He leans forward across his legs and holds his hand out, palm toward Keith. Biting back a smile, Keith reaches out to clasp it. His reward is Lance's wide grin, and the warm wash of his affection that rises like a tide from the soles of Keith's feet to the top of his head, burning a home into his chest.

"There's no one around now," Lance points out, with a mischievous tug to his smile, "In case you hadn't noticed that the park is pretty much deserted today."

"Yeah," Keith says, playing along, "What about it?"

"You could kiss me and find out."

It's playful and direct.

Keith loves it, because it shifts that burden aside.

Lance's hand, curled around his, pulls him in, and Keith closes the distance with a single step, leans in with no further provocation and presses his chapped lips against Lance's. Lance smiles against his mouth. His lips are soft, and Keith can smell the honeyed scent of the chapstick he uses, feels the texture against his tongue when Lance parts his lips and tilts his head. Keith's stomach darts like fish inside a tank, sudden, wheeling. His hand reaches out, but instead of grabbing Lance he grabs onto the chain of the swing to steady it.

Lance doesn't like that.

It's just a flash of second-hand discontent before Keith's own amusement overrides it and he chuckles, deep from his chest. He tugs the chain closer, bringing Lance with it. Lance shifts his weight fully onto his feet and rocks his body against Keith's, almost off-balancing them both.

"Wow." Keith draws back to murmur it.

"Shut up." Lance laughs, and the words ghost across Keith's lips.

His hand sneaks into Keith's jacket, rubbing over his ribs to curl around his back and pull him in snugly. The gravel crunches. The chain clinks and bobs listlessly. Keith somehow pins it under his arm as he circles Lance's shoulders and doesn't even notice the bite of cold through his sleeve. The heat from Lance's body, the firm yet gentle way he holds Keith close to kiss him more enthusiastically, is all-consuming, chasing every thought Keith has away.

There is a marked difference between this time and last time.

Keith isn't sure how to describe it.

There's less… noise. Only it's an inside noise, like a sound only Lance makes that only Keith can hear. It's still there, buzzing gently - a ripple of delight that isn't his own, and swarm of heat in the pit of his stomach that feels too intense. But Keith is able to focus around it, and Lance is the first one to pull away for a full breath. Keith is hyper-aware of how fast Lance's heart is beating. The way it flushes his cheeks and flutters just beneath his jaw.

The pulse of it hits Keith like a bolt of lightning every time. It's in the grip of Lance's hands, buried in Lance's stomach as they press together.

It's singing, in a sense.

It lures Keith in as sure as a siren.

Has him dipping his head to press his lips to Lance's throat, has his mouth watering with the impulse to bite. The instinct is there, but Keith recognizes it this time and pushes it back. He presses a kiss to Lance's racing pulse, wets his lips with a swipe of his tongue, and is so pleased to find that his fangs aren't poking out that he does it again. Lance's fingers curls into Keith's hair at the nape of his neck. Keith feels a surge of reassurance; he forgets Lance can tell when he's hungry.

It doesn't overcome him this time, and Keith is certain that Lance being able to maintain some control over his empathy helped. It wasn't too much for either of them.

That's a boundary: no risque public spaces.

Slowly, Keith lifts his head. Slowly, Lance's hands come around to cup his face.

They're both laughing softly, Lance's excitement spilling over between them, mingling with Keith's as they kiss lightly again and again.

"Are you guys done yet?"

They jump apart.

Sylvio is watching them from the edge of the swingset with his hands on his hips. Nadia is standing behind him, giggling into her warm hands.

Keith feels his face warming as well as he struggles to step back from Lance and shake his arm out of the tangled chain. Lance forgets the seat of the swing is hanging behind his legs and almost trips over it. Sylvio looks even less impressed than before, hiding his face behind a hand.

Straightening up, Lance bats at his clothes, understandably flustered.

"Weren't you two playing and minding your own business?" he demands, not harshly.

"We're hungry, _Tío,"_ Nadia says.

"We want ice cream," Sylvio adds, with a look in his eyes that says he'll be happy to forget what he saw and not tease them about it if his demands are met.

Lance huffs, hands planting in his hips.

"Ice cream, huh."

"Yeah," Sylvio says.

"Yeah!" Nadia chirps conspiratorially.

"I'm being blackmailed!"

"That's an ugly word, _Tío."_

"You're too much like Luis!"

Nadia knows that they've won, though, and she darts forward, latching onto Keith's hand, "Are you coming with us?"

Keith glances at Lance, finds him looking at him just as expectant and eager as his niece is, though he's trying not to show it. It billows out of him, regardless.

Keith smiles softly.

"Sure."

\--x--

Okay, so quick and dirty isn't going to work for them.

It's just not.

Lance has made several attempts to corner Keith, and Keith has made several attempts to corner Lance, and there's always, _always_ someone or something working against them. It's a small town, and Lance has a big family, and Shiro is _always home._ Keith is hungry, or the weather is bad (which means it's sunny and beautiful). The holidays. School. Every little dramatic event in between.

The barn, in the early hours before he has to run off for school, when he should be doing his chores, is Lance's last bid for some privacy.

Keith meets him in the loft before the sun is even up properly, pearly grey light tinting the fields, breath fogging in the air. Lance is a little cranky at being awake so early. He's hungry because it's still before breakfast. He _hates_ the idea of _rolling in the hay_ in a totally literal sense. But the barn is several yards from the house, most of his family is still asleep, and the cows and chickens won't talk.

The only thing Lance is truly worried about is rolling off the edge of the loft, but they pick a spot in the corner where the roof slopes low, between several sturdy square hay bales. The heat lamps in the ceiling generate enough to warm the loft, as well as the snoozing cattle underneath, so it's actually kind of cozy once Lance unrolls the quilt he smuggled from the house and spreads it out over the loose hay.

Pieces of straw still poke through and jab him and Keith painfully when they first settle down, but after a few minutes of purposeful mashing they manage to make the space comfortable.

A sweet and earthy scent surrounds them.

Lance's pulse is already heavy, settling low in his gut, when he straddles Keith's lap and kisses him. They start slow, trying not to hurry, trying to let this play out naturally at its own pace. They're finally alone. They have plenty of time. Lance pushes Keith's jacket off his shoulders, and Keith unzips Lance's hoodie. Their cheeks are already nice and flushed so the outer layers are no loss; they only add some extra padding between their bodies and the itchy hay.

Lance has a flannel on, black and red and grey, the thick fabric soft from years of wearing.

Keith's hand skims upward, caressing the downy material, feeling the way Lance's skin warms it rather than darting underneath it. His fingertips brush over the buttons, the two around Lance's throat undone, the rest closed. He flicks them with his thumb, counts them, one every inch, all the way down to Lance's navel, where they tuck into his jeans.

He flattens his palm against Lance's stomach and slides it back up, delighting in the way that Lance's body rolls with the movement of his hand. He is firmly seated in Keith's lap, his thighs spread nice and wide, hugging Keith as close as possible, so every tiny shift is full of low-burning sparks and soft gasps and hips that rock, gently, chasing the feeling.

That's what it's all about: finding a rhythm.

Figuring out what they're comfortable with and what the other person likes. Lance excels at this. He has gotten so good at harmonizing.

He still has moments of uncertainty. Keith is still a complex network of tangles and knots that threaten to bunch up in his own defense at the slightest things. But they're working on it. They're getting better. It's moments like this - and the quiet ones, too, when Keith sneaks into his room along with the moonlight and they talk and joke and touch each other gently for no reason other than _they can_ \- that make Lance truly appreciate how much he loves this boy.

Keith means the world to him.

"Hey. Lance." Keith's voice almost wrecks him. It gravels out and yet it's so tender, conscious and worried. "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah."

"You got quiet."

Lance sputters out a laugh, "What? Was I being loud or something?"

"I'd say more… noisy," Keith admits, the heat in his cheeks spreading to his ears. Lance cups his hands around them. Keith's hair falls in soft tangles around his wrists. A smirk tugs up his lips. "I like it."

"Well of course you like it," Lance huffs, "Look what you get out of it."

He's trying not to smile, holding Keith's face close, but he just ends up grinning. He tries not to overflow, but he can feel every warm and joyous and excitable thing inside of him spill over into Keith, feels how the introduction of these emotions that don't belong to him are integrated into Keith's with so little effort.

It's like the soft heat of a freshly-laundered comforter pulled over their heads.

Lance drops a kiss to Keith's lips, lingers there. Keith squeezes Lance's hips between his hands, curls into the fabric of his shirt and lifts. Slowly, the shirt slips free of the waist of Lance's jeans. He has to shift up onto his knees and that gives him some extra leverage. So as Lance shudders through the tantalizing drag of the fabric, he pushes Keith back, flat onto the quilt, sending up a waft of sweet, dusty hay.

Keith puffs out a surprised laugh that's a little strained at the edges, twists a hand beneath him to smooth out a hateful piece of straw that reached up to jab him in the lower back. Lance's laughter hums, muffled, against Keith's skin as he presses kiss after kiss across Keith's face. The corners of his mouth. The bridge of his nose. Cheeks and eyes and brow.

One of Keith's hands comes up to curl around Lance's ribs. The other sneaks beneath the hem of his shirt and relishes in the press of warm skin. Lance twists his body, angles his chest, until Keith's thumb grazes over the peak of his nipple, hard beneath the soft fabric.

Keith turned his head to catch Lance's wandering mouth with his own, but Lance breaks the kiss with a feeble gasp. And a noise.

Alright, so he's noisy. Give him a break.

It piques Keith's interest right away. That noise. The tension in Lance's body. He moves his hand to Lance's chest, and Lance hides his burning face, buries it in Keith's hair where it fans across the quilt. He inhales the smokey cedar of Keith's shampoo and the musk of straw underneath, the scent of home that lingers faintly. Keith's finger circles that nub again, dances around it. Lance's body tenses and relaxes, jumps and punches out a breath every time Keith makes contact.

Encouraged by the breathy noises, by the way Lance slots their thighs and hips, seeking friction, Keith rubs and circles and pinches until Lance is squirming and panting against his neck. Lance's nipple peaks up into Keith's palm with every heave of Lance's chest when he finally gives it a rest. Keith has his knee raised, thigh pressing between Lance's legs, where all that heat is pooling. Lance's whole body quivers against him while he catches his breath. His hand has gripped into the quilt beneath them, into Keith's discarded leather jacket, and found the deep inside pocket without intending to.

There's a faint crinkle of plastic, several tiny packets sliding together. The impression of a circle, about an inch in diameter, as Lance pins one and glides his thumb around the edge of it.

He has enough heat in his body to spare, apparently.

It floods into his face when he realizes what it is.

Lance's heart spikes into his throat.

Keith mouths at his ear, "Still okay?"

"Uhuh," Rushed, breathless, Lance takes stock of the relentless humming in his veins. Not just his, but Keith's as well. An undercurrent that flows through them both, beating in their hearts. "Yeah."

"What was that, then?" Keith asks.

"What?"

"That… nervous feeling. It's not me, Lance."

"Oh…"

"Are you nervous?"

"No."

"Do you want to stop?"

"N-no! I -"

But Keith has stopped. They've both stopped, and Lance didn't really notice when they grew still, when they grew quiet except for the sounds of their breathing and the rough tide of emotions. They're just laying, pressed together, Keith still and Lance shivering. Keith's hands are resting on Lance's back, one beneath his shirt and one over the top of it.

Lance has let his weight sink into him fully, but Keith doesn't seem to mind. His chest and stomach rise and fall with the same ease, gently moving Lance with the unconscious rhythm of his body.

Lance hugs into him tighter, squeezes his arms as far as he can between Keith and the quilt. Keith hugs him back, his legs curling a little to keep Lance close. The pressure more than anything else has residual sparks flaring to life and fluttering up into their stomachs.

Keith shudders, and Lance catches his breath.

Then he leans up on his elbows.

Keith's eyes are a hundred different hues of violet, shining and dark - the kind of color that is burning with a life of own. He'd give Lance anything he asked for, do anything he wanted, no question. That shows in every breath Keith takes. It burns in every cell of his body, sings through the borrowed blood in his veins. It wraps Lance up, warm and safe, as solid as Keith's arms around his waist.

There's hesitation creeping under all that now, casting shadows over the light. Lance put it there. He hopes to ease it away by cupping Keith's face between his hands and pressing their faces together, Lance's lips against Keith's cheek. Alright. In hindsight, it's selfish. More to comfort himself than anything else, and the ploy doesn't work, anyway.

Keith's doubt curls up into a tighter ball, shows through even in his eyes.

"I -" Lance blurts it out, his own eyes falling to the jacket. "Are we going to - like this?"

"Going to what?"

"Have…. have sex."

"I don't know."

Keith's bewildered tone has Lance clambering off of him and sitting back, his own anxiety spiking. Keith follows him into a sitting position, but maintains the small distance. All those good feelings are melting away into something heavy and grey. Lance almost can't breathe until he remembers to shut himself off from the doubled-up emotions resonating in Keith, too.

It hardly makes a difference.

Most of the misgivings are of his own devising.

"Lance -"

"You have condoms," Lance blurts out again.

Not knowing where to start untangling his own suddenly mixed feelings, he latches onto the catalyst. Was Keith expecting to…? Lance is not proud of how his voice comes out, shrill and anxious, as if condoms are something dirty and Keith should be ashamed for carrying them.

Keith's face turns red.

He groans, "Shiro…" and casts around, picking up his jacket. He dips into the inside pocket. Brings out a handful of square silver packets with very obvious impressions in the foil. Lance does not need his empathy to sense Keith's embarrassment.

"He got me a whole box," Keith despairs, turning to the other pocket, "And some lube…" A tiny plastic bottle with a snap-cap rolls in his other palm. "I didn't know - I was just gonna leave them at home in the drawer, but then I - I thought - I didn't know what you wanted - I didn't expect to, I just - I just thought it would suck to not have them, if we needed them. So I…"

Lance bursts into a fit of anxious giggles. Keith looks at him, scandalized, and Lance has to cover his face with both hands.

"It's _not funny."_ But Keith is laughing because Lance is laughing, the tension bending. "I told you he gave me The Talk."

"Y-you didn't say he bought you - _condoms."_

"He gave them to me later! In a brown paper bag, like they were contraband or something! He didn't even _give_ them to me in person, he left the bag on my nightstand so I would find it!"

"St-stop, I can't - do this -"

Lance's giggles dissolve into full blown howls of laughter. His guts hurt, and tears are stinging his eyes as he bends double over his knees, hitting his fits into the soft give of the hay beneath the quilt.

"It's _not_ funny, Lance!"

But Keith's own voice is shaking, now, the laughter crackling through. He punctuates each word by hitting Lance with a new packet. They litter the blanket around them, disappear beneath knees and into folds of the blanket as Keith and Lance lean into one another, hands grasping for support. Lance's laughter is a vibrant thing that floods out of him, unable to be contained. It mingles with Keith's until they are one and the same, until they have to bite it back, huffing and giggling as they cover each others faces with their hands, struggling for breath and composure.

Lance manages it first, and because he subsides, so does Keith.

"I'm sorry, Keith," he says plaintively.

"It's okay. I get it." Keith is wiping his eyes, the faint impression of that wild grin remaining and lightening Lance's heart tenfold. "I should have told you I had them. I just… didn't want to put pressure on you. It… it doesn't matter to me if we don't… y'know. Have sex. I mean, like -"

"No, I know what you mean," Lance says quickly, his hand darting out and then snapping back to cover his blushing face again.

He can't hear Keith say it.

He can barely think about it without getting flustered.

They should have talked about this sooner.

"I just… don't know if I… want to," Lance says, struggling to parse how he feels and _say_ it at the same time. He starts picking up the scattered condoms to distract himself, and Keith joins him. "I mean, we haven't even really had a chance to - to fool around and stuff. Y'know?"

"Yeah," Keith sounds relieved, "Yeah, I - same. That's - we don't have to. Yet. And we can change our minds or whatever, whenever."

"Okay. Boundaries are good."

"Yeah."

Lance flashes him a bashful grin, and Keith chuckles, a healthy blush brightening his cheeks.

He tucks the condoms and lube into their respective pockets. Lance has to tease him, holding onto one, turning the packet over to read the label.

"Do these -" He stops, heat rising up his neck and swallowing his face. "Do these fit?"

 _"I don't know,"_ Keith hisses.

"You didn't try them on?"

 _"No._ Don't they all - don't they - stretch?"

 _"I don't know._ I had the same shitty sex-ed class you did freshman year!"

True to being planted firmly inside the Bible Belt, Indigo Pull's "sex education" class focused solely on frightening teens into chastity with gruesome images of disfigured genitals that 100% of the students swiped from their collective memory. There was no _Here's How You Practice Safe and Responsible Sex_ , it was all _Do No Have Sex And Here Is Why._

Lance got a proper talking-to when he went home and complained about the horrifying experience, but it was a mash-up from his parents and his older siblings all at once. Sex was never a big secret. He knew the fundamentals, anyway. Be attentive. Be honest. You can say no at any time. Respect when someone else says no. Don't rush into anything. Ask about protection and birth control.

He didn't ask for intimate details - partly uninterested, mostly embarrassed about being waylaid - and so he didn't receive them.

Right now, however, he is the polar opposite - curious, despite himself. Definitely interested.

"Why did you bring so many?"

"I don't know, Lance, incase one of them broke! I just grabbed a handful!"

Lance opens his mouth.

"Shut up, Lance!"

He closes his mouth, dares to grin.

Keith is biting his mouth closed to keep from smiling as he snatches the condom away and hides it with the others. He tosses his jacket out of reach for good measure.

Lance… still wants to know if it would have fit.

He has barely had a chance to explore his own body, let alone Keith's. Having such a big family (and a mind-reading sister) offers very little alone-time. Lance is amazed that he's an uncle, to be honest. I mean, that's part of his and Keith's problem right now, and they're squandering their chance.

Lance's stomach growls.

Not audibly, but it makes him realize that he's starving. He fishes his phone out of his pocket to check the time, and makes a decision.

"Okay." He looks at Keith, hopeful. "Round two?"

Keith catches his eye, and Lance gets a wash of different things from him, stomach flutters, disbelief and eagerness rolled into one.

"You still want to...?"

"If you do."

"Okay -"

Lance cuts him off with a kiss.

Their roll in the hay commences, with boundaries in place this time. Well, sort-of boundaries.

"Clothes on this time. For now."

"Okay."

"Can I -?"

_"Yes."_

"Lance. ...Hey!"

The call does not come from Keith - it's posed from below, echoing in the expansive barn, muffled by the hay and the rustling movement of cattle.

Furious, Lance shoves Keith off and rolls with him, ends up straddling his stomach, hands planted on his chest. Keith, speechless and frozen between the press of his thighs, just pants up at him with a deer-in-headlights look on his face. He makes a sound like he's going to say something. Lance shushes him loudly and Keith's mouth snaps shut. Lance struggles to figure out who it is around his racing heart, only feels the faintest trickle of a third person's emotions around his and Keith's much more potent feelings, and he hopes to _god_ they'll just go away - 

"Yo, Lance!"

 _"What?"_ Lance barks, struggling to his feet.

He is frazzled beyond belief, clutching at the gaping front of his flannel shirt. Half the buttons are undone, a hickey fresh and wet on his chest. He does not temper his frustration very well, lets it boil out of him as he shuffles to peek over the edge of the loft.

Luis is standing there with one hand planted on his hip and a bucket of milk in the other, smirking up at him. His emotions are steady like Hunk's in a way, easy to read, firmly set and unaffected by Lance's attempt to shake them.

Lance's stomach plummets, his frustration evaporating straight into mortification.

His brother was in here - _how long has he been in here?_

_Did he hear them!?_

"Don't forget to feed the chicken, alright?" The grin on Luis' face says everything. "You've still got chores to do and it's about time for breakfast."

Lance feels his face steadily growing redder.

"Is nothing sacred!?" he snaps, "Can I have _no_ privacy, ever!?"

"Not in this house," Luis laughs.

"WE'RE NOT IN THE HOUSE!"

"To-may-to, to-mah-to."

"This is apples and oranges!"

"Sounds like something else to me."

"I AM REALLY TWO SECONDS AWAY FROM THROWING MYSELF OFF OF HERE, CAN YOU LEAVE ME ALONE, PLEASE?!?"

"Alright, fine," Luis laughs again, full and deep. The aggravating tone of an older brother who is just getting his revenge for all the privacy he never received in his budding teenage years. Lance watches him walk to the door and pull it open. Watches the first inkling of genuine sunlight burn across the floor of the barn. Luis lifts his free hand in a wave, calls, "See ya, Keith!"

The door creaks shut, closing them in with the shadows and cows again.

Legs and breath shaking, Lance stomps back across the loft. Keith is sitting up in the middle of the quilt, watching him. He turns his face away the second Lance catches his eyes, rubbing his neck. His face is flushed - his hair mussed and his shirt rumpled from where it was rucked up beneath Lance's hands just a minute ago.

They really can't get past second base, huh.

Lance throws himself down beside Keith and doesn't look at him, either. He draws his knees up to his chest, uncomfortable and _hot_ and shaking and weak-feeling from all Keith's attention, from _thinking_ about Keith's attention. Lance fumbles with the buttons of his flannel, working them closed again with trembling fingers. Doesn't know why his eyes are heating up and his throat is closing. Keeps his mouth firmly shut on all the things he doesn't know he wants to say.

"Lance." Keith always says his name so softly, "You okay?"

"Yup. I'm great."

"Did I…?"

 _"It's not you,_ Keith."

He snaps it, lets his anger whip out with it - doesn't mean to and drowns in his guilt at the way Keith inwardly pulls back from him. Lance sucks in a shuddering breath, glaring at the way the dust motes drift in the slats of meager light filtered in through tiny holes and cracks in the tin roof. The morning fog has cleared and the sun is up, golden instead of grey.

"Sorry," Lance slips it out on an exhale.

"It's okay, don't be sorry," Keith says at once. His voice is low and deep and Lance looks at him without thinking about it. Keith holds his gaze this time. "It's… I get it."

"This is _frustrating,"_ Lance fums. He clutches his shirt in his fists. Throws his hands. Feels like he's burning. "Like, _in so many ways._ It's stupid! I just want to make out with my boyfriend without feeling like I'm going to literally explode and it's just not happening. And now you're stuck in here for the day - "

"I can make it home, Lance."

"I don't want you to get burned!"

"I'll borrow your hoodie. It's still early. I can stay in the trees for cover most of the trip back, and the alleys when I get into town. I'll be fine. We both lost track of time, okay?"

Keith stands up, brushing off his jeans. Even with the quilt, bits of hay and dust still color the dark fabric. Keith's attempt doesn't make much of a difference, but he seemed to just want something to do with his hands. Those knots are pulling tighter, but Lance is too tired and frustrated in his own ways to pick them apart just yet. So he retreats. Watches Keith's face.

"You can stay in my room, if you want," Lance offers miserably.

Keith smiles at him, that upward tug at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll be okay. I'll come see you tonight."

He leans down to cup Lance's chin and the back of his head between his hands, drops a kiss to the bridge of Lance's nose and makes him laugh. Lance reaches out, curling his hands around Keith's arms to hold him there just a second longer. It works. He gets another kiss at the highest point of his cheekbones before Keith pulls away.

Lance climbs to his feet along with him. He hands Keith his grey hoodie and Keith pulls it on, zipping it up and lifting the hood. Most of Lance's clothes are hand-me-downs, so the hoodie is a couple of sizes too large - the hood is more than big enough to shade Keith's face, and the sleeves are long enough to slip comfortably over his hands.

"I'll see you later," Keith says.

"Yeah, okay," Lance says, "Please be careful. Text me when you get home, okay?"

"Okay."

Keith offers him another smile, leans in to kiss his cheek one final time. He picks up his own jacket, folds it over his arm, and drops down from the loft, landing nimbly on his feet and jogging to the door. He pulls it open, careful to keep his head down, and slips out of sight. Lance crunches and wobbles his way over to one of the windows in the loft. He is just in time to see Keith's figure disappear into the tree line at the farthest edge of the sunny field.

Not ten minutes later, while Lance is sulkily carrying the eggs into the kitchen, where his mom is busy frying bacon and his siblings are yawning, Keith has blessed him with a selfie: Just inside the apartment door, hoodie pushed back, dark hair tangled and sticking to his face. Not a burn or blemish in sight, just Keith's sheepish, toothy grin and bright violet eyes.

 **_K:_ ** _Made it home safe. See you tonight_

Lance texts him back [ten blue heart emojis] and sets the photo as his background.

\--x--

Keith decides to switch up their routine.

He takes Shiro's advice and asks for some privacy, straight-faced and determined, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if he expects to have a confrontation. Shiro only looks surprised, and then laughs. And then agrees. And Keith is absolutely embarrassed about it, burning all the way down to his feet, heart pounding and skittish in his chest. But Shiro _agrees._

"I'll find something to do," he says, trying to control his laughter at Keith's plight, "You can have the whole night. Sound good?"

"Yeah. Sounds good. Thanks," Keith says, voice clipped, fighting the urge to bolt like a rabbit and walking calmly back to his room.

He closes the door, sits on the bed and texts Lance:

 **_K:_ ** _Want to spent the night Saturday?_

He reads it over before sending it. Hesitates, biting his lip. He's never asked Lance to sleep at the apartment with him - he has always gone to Lance's - and Keith is stupidly worried about what Lance's reply will be. He glances up toward the door. Taps his phone against his palm. Reads the text again.

He hits send and tosses the phone, standing up. With no destination in mind, Keith walks to his open closet and slides his shirts around aimlessly. The plush blue comforter Lance gave him for Christmas is folded neatly on the top shelf, freshly laundered.

His phone buzzes. Keith darts to pick it up.

 **_L:_ ** _At the apartment??_

 **_K:_ ** _Yeah_

Keith's hand shakes. He starts to type, _You don't have to if you don't want to,_ but before he can finish the hasty backpedal, Lance's answer comes in:

 **_L:_ ** _Yeah! I'll pack a bag omg  
_ _Are we gonna snuggle and watch movies?  
_ _You have no idea how exciting this is, the only places I get to go are Pidge and Hunk's ily_

Any anxiety Keith was feeling quickly gets washed away.

He smiles, sinking back down onto the bed.

 **_K:_ ** _We can do whatever you want_

 **_L:_ ** _That is a dangerous statement to make, novio_

 **_K:_ ** _Can't wait to see what you do with it_

 **_L:_ ** _I love it when you flirt SO MUCH can I just say_

 **_K:_ ** _I mean it tho. We'll have the apartment to ourselves, Shiro's going out. So we can do whatever you want. Like Whatever you Want winky face_

 **_L:_ ** _im CRYING wh  
_ _WHY did you type out "winky face"  
_ _ily so fuxking much dude_

Keith doesn't know whether to be endeared or insulted. He feels silly using the emojis - they look stupid, and they're always changing every time the phone updates, anyway - but he wanted to get his meaning across. Lance is going to mock him for that for the rest of his life.

Keith doesn't really care.

He smiles at his phone, flopping back across the sheets.

\--

Lance shows up at the door around 7:30 Saturday evening with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a wild, eager look in his eyes. He toes off his sneakers, kicking them aside.

"My dad almost didn't let me out of the truck," he tells Keith, half laughing. His cheeks are flushed and he's out of breath, like he ran up the stairs instead of taking them at a patient pace. "I might have let it slip that Shiro isn't gonna be around to chaperone."

"Shiro's still here, actually," Shiro calls from the kitchen.

Lance opens his mouth, looks at Keith - must have been _so focused_ on Keith that he missed the play of Shiro's amusement in the other room - and Keith tries not to let his whole body go warm, but he has little control over it. Lance slaps himself in the face with his own hand. He turns to grab the doorknob as if he's going to wrench it open and walk right back out, mumbling about his _big stupid mouth._ Keith grabs him by the arm to stop him, letting out a nervous laugh.

"He's leaving soon. C'mon," Keith says, "You can put your stuff in my room."

He keeps his hand around Lance's wrist and quickly pulls him down the hall. Lance is shame-faced, groaning, "Hey, Shiro," as they pass the kitchen. Shiro is washing up the dishes from his supper, grinning at them unabashedly.

"Hey, Lance."

Lance groans again, Keith tugging on his arm.

He whispers, hopefully not too loudly, "Why didn't you tell me he was still here, Keith!?"

"I didn't think you would say something stupid right out of the gate," Keith whispers back without heat. He starts to close his bedroom door once they're inside, then decides against it, leaving it cracked open a couple of inches. "It doesn't matter, anyway. He's only spending the night at the Holt's with Matt because I told him you were coming over."

"Wh-what?!" Lance squawks, struggling to keep his voice down. The apartment is small, and they can easily hear the clinking dishes and running water. Lance is clutching at his bag with both arms, red-faced. "Does he - does he know what we're doing!?"

"What!? No! No, I told him we were watching movies!"

"Oh! Oh my god, okay."

"And we weren't - I mean we're not gonna have sex, are we?"

"N-no?"

_"Lance."_

"I don't know! Did you want - ?"

"There's no pressure," Keith says desperately, "I was just asking what you wanted."

"I - I wanna watch movies," Lance blurts out. He's squeezing the life out of his duffel bag, blue eyes darting across the floor before settling on Keith's. And he does settle, inside and out, taking the anxious buzzing in the room with him as he calms. Lance inclines his head. "I wanna just hang out and just like, kiss you and stuff without being interrupted for once. Y'know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Keith smiles, and Lance grins back, reaching out to snag his hand where it hangs at Keith's side. The water in the kitchen thumps off, silence dropping through the apartment. Lance gives Keith's fingers one final squeeze before he lets go. Keith preserves the warmth by tucking his hands into his pockets, watching Lance drop his bag beside the night stand and plop down onto the bed. The blue comforter puffs up underneath him, and Lance grins, his hands darting across the smooth fabric.

"You like your present, I guess," he says.

"It's better when it's fresh outta the dryer," Keith admits, and Lance laughs.

"We can put that on the agenda, if you wanna~"

"Yeah."

They sit on the bed and talk while Shiro crosses back and forth from his room across the hall to the living room, getting his things together. Keith sits at the foot with his legs crossed while Lance lays sprawled across the comforter, occasionally putting his face in it to inhale deeply. They keep a respectable distance from each other, mostly out of nerves, conscious of Shiro's movements. Lance is showing Keith another dumb cat video (and they're laughing like idiots about it) when Shiro rapts his knuckles against the half-open door and pokes his head inside.

"Sam's here, so I'm heading out," he says.

Keith struggles to recover his breath, wiping the tears from his eyes. "Okay. Be careful."

"I'll text you when we get there," Shiro assures him, he glances at Lance, who sits up, cradling his phone and still giggling a little, "You two behave, alright?"

Before Keith can bristle up and assert - for the hundredth time - that they're not going to be _doing_ anything, Lance answers, "We promise not to set the place on fire."

He grins easily, calm as you please.

"As long as it's still here when I get back," Shiro quips, "Good night."

"Goodnight," Keith and Lance chorus.

They sit still, listening as Shiro pulls his shoes on, dons his coat, and grabs his house keys out of the ceramic key bowl. The door groans open, claps shut. Keith listens to the faint sound of Shiro's footsteps retreating down the outside hall, down the stairs; Lance stretches back out across the mattress and plucks at the edge of the blackout curtain that's been pinned down against the wall. He eases it back to watch the parking lot below, where a car is idling.

They can both hear the engine running, and they both hear the car door shut.

Lance smooths the curtain down and puts the pin back.

There's a tense moment as the sound of the engine fades imperceptibly into the every-day noise of traffic, where Lance looks at Keith steadily, and grins.

"Movie first," Lance says, rocking up from the bed.

"Whatever," Keith says, following him with a smile. Aware of the irony in the question, he asks anyway, "Are you hungry?"

"I had supper already, but I brought popcorn and snacks, anyway, because these are sleep-over staples that cannot be overlooked. I also brought my toothbrush and pillow. And I brought a couple of movies, I wasn't sure what you'd wanna watch."

Lance prattles happily as he unloads the contents of his duffel onto the floor, rummaging for the snacks and movies in question. Keith picks one out (because Lance insists). Lance demands they change into their pajamas so they can be comfy, so Keith obliges (both of them sneak peeks at bare, uncharted skin, but do no more than blush when the other catches them). And together they strip Keith's bed of all the pillows and the comforter and tote them into the living room, where they can snuggle down on the couch.

It's small, hardly more than a loveseat, and the additional padding makes the space even cozier. Keith would hate it if it were anyone other than Lance wedged up against him. As it is, he feels more relaxed in the apartment than he ever has before.

Lance peels open a bag of chips, and Keith laments that he can't eat them, because barbeque used to be his favorite. They turn off all the lights and tuck into the nest of blankets. It's a movie they've both seen before, dozens of times in their childhood, so it doesn't demand a lot of their attention.

They give it some, at first.

Mostly, Lance ends up talking, commenting, laughing, and Keith tumbles eagerly after him. They're legs and hands, hips and shoulders, brush up against each other, fleeting things more teasing than touching. The opportunity is there, the anticipation builds, but neither of them feel the need to jump on it.

Keith sleeps in shorts and a t-shirt, accustomed to overheating and sweating in the night, though he doesn't so much nowadays. Lance's fingers touch the inside of his knee, new and thrilling. They skate boldly up Keith's thigh, bare skin on bare skin, and Keith's breath catches audibly, his body tensing at the sensation - not because it is bad, but because it is new.

He's not a physical person.

No one ever touches him the way Lance does.

The way Lance is touching him _right now,_ skimming the edge of his shorts, the firm muscle of his jumping thigh, before his hand darts away.

Lance gets up abruptly, tossing back the comforter. Keith watches him dart down the hall, hears his light footfalls retreating to his room, then to the bathroom; hears the bathroom sink cut on, smells the bright mint of toothpaste. Keith sits there, bewildered, while the movie plays at a low volume, throwing flickering light into the dark apartment.

Lance's heart is beating really fast when he settles back down beside Keith on the couch, beneath the comforter. Keith feels it mirrored in his own veins, feels a jump of anticipation that does not belong to him, a flicker of anxiety entirely his own but doubled up.

He doesn't normally reach out first.

He lets Lance do that, lets Lance set the pace.

Lance latches onto his arm, hands moving aimlessly to distract or anchor himself. Those pulses steady some. Lance gusts out a small laugh.

"What?" Keith asks.

"Nothing," Lance chuckles, "I'm stupid."

"Why -?"

Keith shuts up.

He shuts up because Lance turns and leans forward and kisses him firmly on the mouth.

Lance climbs into his lap, pressing him back into the couch cushions and pillows, the comforter slipping off their shoulders and gliding to the floor. Keith misses the warmth absentmindedly, for about two seconds. Lance quickly replaces it with his body, ten times better because of his loud, thudding pulse, his hands that shoot up beneath the hem of Keith's shirt and play over his sides, his thighs doing their best to bracket Keith's hips on the narrow seat of the couch.

They struggle for balance, trying to kiss and find a comfortable position at the same time.

Lance laughs against his mouth, and Keith's laughter catches in his throat. Their shirts ruck up under their arms, exposed stomachs melting together. Slowly, it occurs to Keith that they're _alone._ They're alone, and no one is going to interrupt. The moment the revelation _hits_ Lance picks up on it, like a light switch flipping on.

"Take this off," Lance gasps, grabbing handfuls of Keith's shirt and tugging.

"Get off me first," Keith challenges with a laugh. His voice comes out as a low rumble, completely on accident. Lance makes a noise and swoops down to kiss him heatedly one more time before he complies.

He falls back onto the couch beside Keith with a huff, their legs still folded over one another. There's not enough space. It was comfortable enough just sitting beside each other, snuggling, but it's not comfortable enough for this. Their shirts accompany the comforter into a forgotten pile on the floor, and Lance surges back in to pin Keith down. His mouth finds a new home against Keith's clavicle, carefully mapping the sharp jut of bones beneath his feverish skin.

His hands burn their way up Keith's sides, following the curve of his ribs to his back. His fingernails scrape lightly, and Keith's breath snags.

He gives in to every impulse he's ever had.

He grips a hand into Lance's hair, combs his fingers through it, raking his scalp. His belly jumps when Lance groans and closes his mouth over his skin. He sucks, hard, leaving a dark pink mark behind. Lance scrapes his teeth over the tender spot, soothes it with his tongue, and Keith tugs sharply at his hair - tugs a moan out of Lance, one he stifles quickly as he looks up at Keith. It's too late to hide it. They both _felt_ that. That surge, white hot, that shot through them both like a bolt from the blue. Lance is blushing, cheeks a perfect rusty brown, and his lips are wet and parted.

It's the hottest thing Keith has ever seen.

"Did I hurt you?" Lance asks.

"No," Keith says, bewildered, belatedly remembering the graze of his teeth.

"Okay."

Lance smirks.

Keith's stomach flips one way and then the other, heat pooling low between his legs. Lance drops another kiss to the center of his chest as he drags another set of lines across Keith's sides. Keith bows his back to give his hands more room, and Lance's mouth eagerly finds all the places that his hands have already explored. He drops kisses across Keith's chest as if he has been waiting ages to do it, paying attention to every hitch in Keith's breathing, every heavy sigh.

He chases after each bud of anticipation, coaxes them into fully-bloomed, shivering delight. Keith's body heats and cools at Lance's bidding. His blood is singing, matching an unheard rhythm. Desire, understanding, flows between them like a river.

And Keith is going to drown.

\--

It's easier to focus when Keith isn't touching him.

That's part of the reason Lance just goes for it - a tiny, tiny part of the reason. Mainly, he is just giving in to his own selfish wants.

So he lavishes Keith with unbroken attention.

He kisses every part of Keith that he can reach, emboldened by the flood of bright enjoyment that saturates the air between them, by the way Keith's voice dips deeper and drags out of him. Every breathy noise punches right into Lance's gut, and he's projecting, just a little, so every time it does Keith breathes a little heavier, shifts his hips, curls his hands into Lance's hair and _pulls harder_ the lower he goes.

Lance loves that.

It's maddening, in a great way.

Didn't think he would be into hair-pulling but _santa mierda_ here he is, planting a hickey on Keith's navel and sucking like a leech because he knows Keith will pull harder and make that noise and he's _right._ They both get that warm gush of electricity plummeting straight through their bellies. Lance rakes his blunt nails down Keith's back, all the way to his hips, where his shorts are riding lower and lower.

He has slipped off the couch altogether at this point, on his knees between Keith's open thighs.

Keith is hard.

Lance feels the shape of him bump against his throat when Keith's hips jump up, his breath going out.

A couple of emotions whip through him.

He feels a little smug, pleased with himself for getting his boyfriend so riled up with just a few kisses - delighted that he had the chance, _finally_. But he also hesitates, unsure of what to do next. His fingers curl into the waistband of Keith's shorts and he glances at Keith to ask what he wants - belatedly realizes some of that uncertainty doesn't belong to him at all when Keith's nervousness spikes and he suddenly yanks Lance upright with inhuman strength.

He does it without thinking, panic and pleasure a hazy cocktail. His hand is fisted into Lance's hair, so he pulls. Not in a sexy way. Lance yelps, "Ow! Keith!" Following the painful grip until he is braced on his hands, leaning awkwardly over Keith, who lets go of him immediately, remorse like ice water thrown between them.

"Sorry," Keith mumbles, trying to catch his breath. He's flushed a pretty pink from his chest to his ears, hickies marching down his belly. His eyes are fractured amethysts, bright in the dimness, and his fangs swoop over his bottom lip.

 _Oh,_ Lance thinks, flushing with warmth. Got him even more riled up than he guessed. It's not quite hunger that he's feeling, either, when he prods a little deeper into Keith's emotions. Slowly, he settles his weight between Keith's legs, his chest to Keith's stomach, ready to push back at the slightest sign of tension. Keith squirms, breath hitching, but if anything he relaxes.

"Sorry," he says again.

"It's okay," Lance says. He presses the reassurance even as he reaches back to rub his aching scalp, blinking the tears out of his eyes, "Keith, if you want me to stop all you gotta do is say -"

"I know! I - sorry - I didn't mean to pull so hard…" He looks abashed, gaze darting aside and then back. He lifts his hand, wants to put it back on Lance's head to soothe the hurt, and then drops it. "I didn't… want you to stop. I just…"

"Panicked a little," Lance teases, quirking his mouth into a tentative smile, "Same."

Keith smiles back at him. The gesture makes him aware of his fangs, though, poking into his bottom lip, and his smile drops away like a stone. Keith lifts a hand to touch his mouth, his brow knotting up - along with all those good feelings that Lance worked so hard to kiss into him. Lance opens his mouth, pulls in a breath, and decides against saying something.

Instead, he ducks his head and blows a raspberry against Keith's stomach.

Keith yelps, laughs, "Lance!"

His legs squeeze around Lance's middle, pinning him in place, while his hands shove at Lance's head and shoulders, trying to force him back. The crossed signals gives Lance ample time to hook his arms around Keith's waist and blow another raspberry, and another, and another. The apartment fills with Keith's laughter, sunshine brightening a room.

"Lance sto- _hhh-stop_ , you idiot!"

Keith's legs get with the program and he's able to shove Lance back.

Lance laughs, "Only because you asked so nicely~" And moves to sit beside him again. They're both breathless from giggling. Keith puts his feet up in the seat, knees drawn up and pressed together to create a barrier between his ticklish belly and Lance's grinning mouth.

"Sorry," Lance says, not meaning it at all.

He leans against Keith's knees, reaching around them to deal out more distraction if he can. Keith catches both his wrists and holds them tightly, says again, "Stop!" His fangs are gone, grin wild, eyes their normal stormy violet-grey. Any anxiety is long gone. The room is dark, and chilly on his bare skin, but Lance feels nothing but the deep, tangled affection weaving out of Keith and into himself, twining and blooming.

Lance presses a kiss to Keith's knees, first one then the other, and Keith huffs.

"Stupid," he mumbles.

"Who, you or me?" Lance asks.

Keith hums noncommittally.

Lance laughs, "Wow." He kisses Keith's knees again, tries to pull his hands free to grab his legs, but Keith holds him firmly with very little effort. Not tightly enough to hurt Lance's wrists, just to keep him from his mischief. He kicks a leg out, gently.

"Knock it off, Lance!"

"Why? I can't kiss you anymore?"

"I don't trust you not to tickle me."

"I didn't know you were ticklish until literally just now, obviously it is my sworn duty as your boyfriend to abuse the knowledge any time I can now."

"No," Keith says, the firmness lost in his soft laughter, "It's not."

"Yes it is!"

"I don't like being tickled."

"Nobody _likes_ being tickled, Keith! It's a strategy to break your defenses so you'll let me kiss you."

"You can kiss me if you stop trying to tickle me."

"Oh, so you wanna bargain now? You wanna make a deal with the devil?"

"Why are you like this?"

"Why am I charming and handsome? It's genetic."

"Mhh. No. That's not what I meant."

"Are you sure? Because I'm both of those things, like all the time."

"No," Keith laughs.

"You don't think I'm handsome?"

Keith is quiet for a second. 

"That's not fair," he laughs. And, wow, can Lance just say? Seeing Keith so relaxed and in such a playful mood is the most amazing thing he's witnessed in a long, long time. He should have gotten him half-naked and tickled him months ago. (Not that that's something he would ever say out loud.)

Keith let's go of Lance's wrists, drops his knees and rolls upright so their faces are close again, noses almost touching as Lance leans in to meet him. He's smiling so hard his face hurts. Keith's expression is serious, though. All that playful energy condenses into something more purposeful, and Lance's pulse kicks up in acknowledgement.

He bites his lip.

(Keith's eyes dart down to track the movement.)

And he doesn't have to wait long.

Keith's hands are warm and welcome against his bare skin, circling his arms to draw him closer, slipping past them to his hips, never once breaking eye contact. It's magnetic. Not the supernatural pull he has on animals, just something inherently _Keith_ that Lance is drawn to like a moth to a flame. It has his lips parting, breath quickening, feeding off of Keith's tension and growing restless because of it.

"I do think you're handsome," Keith murmurs.

Lance blushes at the unexpected compliment, their conversation forgotten in the lure of Keith's steady, thundering gaze.

It hits hard because Lance _knows_ it's the truth. Knows that Keith isn't teasing him, or telling him what he wants to hear. He means it from the deepest part of his heart, with an earnestness that punches into Lance's chest with the pure intent of making a home there. It's all those knots inside of him unraveling, just a little, just enough for Lance to understand fully that Keith has so much love in him and he is so desperate to give it to others.

He's just afraid of being rejected, afraid of being hurt. Afraid, above everything else, of being _alone._

Lance knew that already.

But feeling it so clearly has a hundred emotions burning in his throat, heating his eyes.

 _"Oh,"_ wavers out of him.

He struggles to rein everything in, aware that he's bursting like a dam. His shaking hands clutch at Keith, and Keith squeezes him back.

"Don't cry, Lance," he begs, as if he can't bear it.

"I'm not."

He is.

It's silly to deny it when the evidence is plain. Tears stream down his face, more forcefully with every blink. They wet his throat and chest, and plip onto Keith's arms; they decorate Keith's wrists when he brings his hands up to to brush them away.

"What's wrong?" Keith asks.

He thinks he said something, thinks he let too much show and that it was upsetting.

"Nothing," Lance says, trying to get ahold of himself. He pulls the magic back in, a little at a time. Lets just enough linger outside of himself to reassure Keith that he's being honest as he curls his arms around Keith's shoulders and presses each new promise against his lips, "Nothing's wrong. I love you."

He's said it before, and meant it before.

He has vowed to himself and to anyone listening that things are going to work out for the best, for himself, and for Keith, and for everyone else. His parents didn't raise him to go back on his word - to quit, just because things are frightening and difficult. They raised him to work hard for the things and the people that he cares about, to appreciate what he has in the moment and to never take it for granted.

And what he has right now, in this moment, is so much love for Keith Kogane that it pours out of him like a deluge at the height of spring, swelling riverbanks and flooding fields. The surprised, uncertain look on Keith's face only strengthens it. Lance wants to tell him _you deserve to be loved, stupid._

_You deserve the whole world._

But the words get lost on their way out of him.

He pulls Keith to him and kisses him, knowing that Keith can feel everything that he's feeling and that he returns it in the wounded way that he can. It's rough and messy, a little desperate; tongues and teeth clashing between harsh puffs of breath, hands grasping hard enough to hurt; hearts punching through their chests, trying to touch and beat as one.

Keith pulls away, his hands firmly cupping Lance's face to hold him back.

"Calm down," Keith whispers.

"I - "

"Lance."

Lance nods, takes a breath - a moment to refocus.

Keith leans back in to kiss the corner of his mouth. Soothed by the gesture, Lance finds it easier to stopper the outward flow of magic that's enhancing everything, dims it down to his own singular sensations and feelings and realizes how badly he was shaking only after he stops. He shivers when Keith's fingertips brush the nape of his neck, not because it's overwhelming but because it's such a welcome, tender touch. He closes his own hand into Keith's dark, tangled hair, and relishes in the warm breath the Keith ghosts across his throat as he lowers his mouth to his neck.

There's no prickle of hunger, no knife-like graze of fangs. Just Keith's mouth closing over his pulse, the painful pleasure as he sucks hard, the low vibration of his moan thrumming through Lance's throat as Lance's blood rushes up beneath his skin at the summons and lingers just out of reach.

"Holy shit," Lance's voice shakes.

Keith's arms slip around his waist to hug him closer, to press their bodies tight together. Lance gets pulled into Keith's lap, and then there is a rush of vertigo - Keith's hands slip lower, grasp his thighs, hoist him up - everything tilts, and Lance feels weightless for about two seconds before his back hits a soft, cool surface. He bounces a little before Keith crowds over him to pin him down. Keith's hands slip over his bare skin, his face tucked against Lance's temple.

It's not the couch, Lance realizes, but Keith's bed. He knows because the room is darker, quieter; he has more space to stretch out, and the play of faint light across the ceiling grows dimmer as the bedroom door eases itself closed on surprised hinges. The noise from their forgotten movie fades into something indiscernible. It takes his hazy brain a moment to comprehend what happened.

Keith pants into his hair, "This okay?"

"Yeah," Lance laughs, voice barely there, "Dude."

"What?"

"Holy shit."

 _"What?"_ He's defensive, embarrassed by his own overzealousness. "There wasn't enough room on the couch!"

"No, I know. Not complaining. Definitely not complain - _ah! Christ!"_

"It's Keith."

He's got _no business_ trying to be funny when his hand has slipped boldly up the back of Lance's thigh and grabbed a handful of his ass, beneath the cover of his shorts and boxers. When his mouth burns down the column of Lance's throat in a tantalizing promise. Lance barks out a desperate laugh. He twists and squirms as Keith familiarizes himself with the new skin, the toned muscle, the same way Lance did a few minutes ago - his hand straying down Lance's thigh and back up, fingers grazing the curve of his cheek, mouth marking a deliberate trail across Lance's chest.

Lance is a lot more sensitive than Keith is in that area.

His blood pools quick and low.

Keith's name punches out of him.

His back bows, knees curling, feet pushing into the mattress. He moves as much as he can in the confines of Keith's firm grip, and he _loves_ the contrast between that and the careful way Keith's mouth moves over his burning skin. His tongue flicks out across a nipple, and Lance jolts, voice buried in his throat. Keith's hand sweeps around his thigh, the fabric shifting and rubbing as his arm takes up more space inside the leg, squeezing at the juncture of Lance's hip.

It's _so close_ to where he _wants_ it.

Lance is panting, each coming out as a whine, his whole body an electric storm that thunders with heat and anticipation.

His hand darts down to close around Keith's wrist, the other tightening into Keith's hair. He can't take much more of this and yet he _wants_ more. He wants everything that Keith can give him. His heart feels like it's going to come out of his chest, and that tension is _building._

Keith looks up at him, blinks.

It's like two lanterns flickering - Keith's violet eyes, rimmed in gold, are the only things that Lance can see in the gloom apart from his pale skin. Keith can see him in perfect clarity. The deep color of his cheekbones. The sweat beading on his brow and dampening his hair. Lance knows, because Keith's impression of him, all the powerful nameless things he's feeling, bridges the link formed by Lance's empathy and burns Lance to the core.

Keith's hand withdraws from the inside of Lance's pantleg, fingers leaving divots in his sensitive skin as he drags them down to Lance's knee. Lance shifts his hips, breathes out to steady his nerves. He pulls back a little so he's not diluting Keith's wants and feelings with his own, but he only seems to pull more of Keith into himself like a tide that rushes against the shore.

The fact that it's dark - the fact that it's _Keith_ \- helps stave off any embarrassment Lance might have thought he'd feel at the prospect of being totally naked, with someone else who is also going to be totally naked, about to do something Lance has never done except by himself, rushed and quiet in his own bed when he was certain the rest house was asleep and the door was locked, before he found out his sister was a telepath.

It's been a few good months since the last time he touched himself. And that whole time he's been thinking of Keith, and _wanting_ Keith. It's unbearable because Lance _knows_ Keith wants him too _,_ wants to taste him and touch him and make him feel good.

Keith still asks,

"D'you want to...?"

"Yeah," Lance pants, "Do you?"

"Yeah."

It's quiet, certain. Keith's hand strays to his hips again, this time playing with the fabric.

"Can I…?"

 _"Yeah."_ Lance nods, face burning. He squirms, restless, eager and anxious. "Anything. C'mon, Keith."

Keith's broad hands tug down his shorts, his boxers with them, and Lance lifts his hips to make it easier. His own hands fumble at Keith's waist with the same silent question, and this time Keith lets him. The uncertainty is gone. All that's left is the desperate desire that burns as an opulent thing between them, shivering through their hurried movements.

There's some fumbling, and wild giggling, and a couple of muttered swears as they twist and kick out of the rest of their clothes. It's not exactly sexy. But Keith's half-burst of laughter is husky, deep in his throat, and Lance kisses the sound right out of his mouth. Keith's fangs nick his lip, sharp and coppery, but his tongue soothes over each red slit so quickly that Lance doesn't even register the pain, and Keith doesn't register the guilt. For once, it is nothing more than a bright flash of good feelings, and Lance revels in it.

When Keith boldly and slots their hips together, trapping them both between the slick heat of their bodies, lining up against each other, Lance swears he goes blind for a second. It becomes impossible to distinguish himself from Keith. Everything happens in tandem, a thrilling harmony. Their hips move, driven instinctively to chase that friction, those dancing sparks, that tension building, building, _building,_ new and burning like a naked palm in freshly laid snow.

His breath punches out, warm across his face. His body tenses, muscles jumping, thighs shaking. All of those jumbled emotions play between them, shared and turned over and shared again.

The thing that causes Lance to shrink back into his own awareness is a stinging pain along his throat. It's no tiny cut, or a single puncture, but a substantial scratch from the base of his jaw to his collarbone as Keith slips, trying to hide his face against Lance's shoulder - and it's not so much the pain as it is the inky black guilt that accompanies it. Keith's whole body tenses. He starts to pull away, and Lance's empathy, heightened as it is, gives him just enough time to react. He squeezes Keith's hips with his knees, hands pressing into Keith's back to hold him in place.

He could get away if he really tried.

They both know it.

But Keith stays where he is and tries not to breathe, shaking with the effort as Lance's blood and sweat mingle, carve a thin, tickling line down the curve of his neck. Keith does nothing to stop it. He doesn't seal the wound up, doesn't even move except for the involuntary shivering of his muscles. The word _sorry_ trembles against Lance's skin, hardly more than heat and air.

Lance nuzzles his face into Keith's sweaty temple, rubs his back and lets his own calm feelings pervade everything else. His own voice shakes out, breath still catching, body still warm and tingling; "Don't worry about it, okay? 'S fine. It doesn't hurt."

"I didn't mean to -"

"It's okay, Keith. I know. D'you wanna stop?"

"No." Keith sounds like it pains him to say it; he feels selfish.

"Then don't."

Lance's hand slides down Keith's back, feels the play of muscles as Keith relaxes a fraction. Any frustration Lance might have felt at the interruption is staved by Keith's sudden anxiety. He is willing to stop if Keith is too upset to keep going, but he doesn't want Keith to think that one little misstep is unforgivable.

"It was just an accident, Keith," Lance murmurs, "It doesn't hurt, you know it doesn't hurt. I'm totally fine, _querido._ It's just a scratch."

Lance loosens his hold on Keith just a little, confident that the other boy won't bolt the moment he's free to do so, and allows Keith to pull back enough to look at him.

Lance cups his hands around Keith's face and kisses him softly, aware of the fangs decorating his mouth. They won't do any damage if they're careful. He wants Keith to know that. They're a part of who he is, and Lance loves him _so much._ He doesn't push it to overwhelm Keith or to get his way - he pushes it because he wants to make sure that Keith _knows_ that he is accepted and loved exactly as he is, and that if he needs to they can go at a slower pace.

Lance is _ready_ for this.

It will not mean the same if Keith is not right there with him.

Keith's hesitation gets the best of him; he kisses Lance back, but it lacks a lot of the confidence from before and after a moment he turns his head away, pressing his face into the sheets, instead, inhaling the scent of Lance's hair. That's fine. He hasn't pulled away, and Lance gives him time, raking his hands through Keith's tangled hair, letting his aching body calm down.

"I - I can hear it," Keith mumbles unexpectedly.

"What?"

"Your… your heartbeat. It's so loud, Lance..."

"Is that good or bad?"

Keith doesn't know, so he doesn't answer.

"Keith. Do you wanna stop?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

There's just enough space between their bodies for Lance to trail his hand down Keith's chest, to feel the jump of his stomach and the way Keith shifts into his touch. He's worried about what he might do if he's the one in control again. Lance understands that. So when he pushes, Keith goes without complaint, flipping their positions on the bed - Keith on his back, Lance straddling his hips. And it's way different, being in this position without any clothes on, without anything between them except for the dark.

That's the only thing that stops Lance from being self-conscious about it.

He doesn't second guess himself. Not when Keith sucks in a breath as he looks up at him, definitely not when Keith's hands come up to rest against his thighs.

The air is cool against his damp skin, but the slight distance from his open cut has Keith noticeably more relaxed. Lance plants his hands on Keith's stomach; one to steady himself, knowing Keith can take his weight; and one to resume its journey downward. He touches Keith first, even though he is achingly hard at this point - just to feel Keith jump and tense and relax, dependent on the movements of his hand, the pressure of his fingers as they explore.

Keith forgets everything else in the span of a few strokes. His fingers dig into the meat of Lance's thigh, that electricity leaping up from his grip. His back bows, head tipped back, chest expanding and contracting with each heavy groan and desperate breath.

Lance's confidence only grows from there.

Keith tries to buck his hips up, and that really does some things for Lance. It's got all sorts of ideas rapid-firing through his mind. It's got his own breath catching hard in his throat when Keith remembers he has hands, and uses one of them to do something other than squeeze the life out of Lance's legs. He dips it between them without warning. His touch is scalding. Lance's whole body shudders, forgets how to function for a solid three seconds in the euphoria.

Then they're both matching pace, finding a rhythm, working their hands and hips together to see who can bring the other over first.

Lance's brain-to-mouth filter pretty much evaporates. He mumbles ceaselessly, gasps encouragement, moans Keith's name and whines his praises. The hand on Keith's chest curls and uncurls, blunt nails scratching Keith's skin. Keith is quieter. He pants into the open air, and every little noise he _does_ make has Lance's spine tingling and his stomach burning.

Those edges blur together again.

Their bodies and breaths and pulses all move in unison, and they climb and climb until they tip over that white-hot crest together.

After wanting it for _so long,_ the release from all that tension is incredibly satisfying. It hits Lance like a tidal wave, twice as hard, and he is barely aware of anything other than that shuddering, pulsing pleasure that spreads out from his gut and into his legs, his chest, his head. The way his gut clenches and his thighs shake. The way his name punches out of Keith as if he hit him in the chest, the way their blood seems to _sing._

Keith's hand works a little longer than Lance's does, smearing the slickness over them both until Lance grabs at his wrist, wrung-out and over-sensitive. He wants to collapse, but his legs have locked, in a jellied sort of way, and he simply crumples forward against Keith's chest, holding their messy hands between the rapid rise and fall of their stomachs.

Lance stays curled like that for several minutes as the aftershocks work their way through his body, each a little less intense than the last. He is more than content to bask in the musky scent of Keith's sweat and skin, and Keith doesn't seem to mind. His own blissed-out feelings are half the reason Lance can't even move except to pant heavily for each breath.

Slowly, their drumming heartbeats steady somewhat.

Keith's free hand massages the tense muscles in Lance's leg, then his hip, working it's way up to rub his back as Lance regains some sense of himself.

He groans as he stretches out, rolling onto his side beside Keith on the mattress with his limbs thrown across him, still holding his hand. They're both gross and sticky. Lance makes a face, groaning again. He considers getting up and washing off, but it is a fleeting thought across his mind that he quickly abandons when Keith's soft chuckle dusts his forehead.

"Lance." His ears are ringing and Keith's voice is muffled by it. "You okay?"

Lance just hums an affirmative and blinks at him.

Maybe he absorbed too much. Everything feels hazy, his whole body buzzing, suffused with a heavy warmth - it feels similar to when he was fourteen and took a swig of his Uncle's apple-honey moonshine at Christmas without knowing what it was, aside from the burn of copper down his throat. 

Keith's arm comes around him, and he pulls Lance to him so they're curled together on their sides. He presses a kiss to Lance's cheek, the corner of his mouth. His fangs are gone. His eyes are closed, but Lance knows they're their normal smokey purple again. All he can feel from Keith is his satisfaction and affection - no burning hunger or tangled knots - even when Keith tentatively touches the shallow cut on his neck with a corner of the bedsheet. Lance's smile widens into something big and stupid as he closes his eyes and lets Keith freckle his face with a hundred kisses.

\--

Lance has no idea how long they lay there.

Time absolutely stops existing for a while.

At some point, he starts responding a little more enthusiastically to Keith's attempts to rouse him from his post-orgasm, empathy-induced stupor. He giggles when Keith's mouth finds a ticklish spot behind his ear. He shifts when Keith's fingers trail up his spine or poke him in the sides. Slowly, he works some energy back into his loosely trembling limbs, and he becomes aware of the fact that he's naked - and _Keith's_ naked - and even if it doesn't bother Keith, the open air against his damp skin is starting to get to him.

His neck is starting to sting where it was opened by Keith's fangs. It wasn't that deep, just a surface scratch, and the blood has dried, but Lance is sort of afraid to see what sort of mess it made.

Keith's emotions are as calm as deep water, so it can't be that bad. Lance puts it out of his mind.

The first thing he manages to say is, "Wow."

"What?" Keith asks.

"That… That felt amazing?" Maybe he's still a little dazed. Forming words is harder than he thought, and his voice is deeper than he expects.

Keith responds with another chuckle, "Yeah. Think you got a heavier dose than I did. You okay?"

"I am _so good,_ dude."

"Don't call me 'dude' when we're both naked."

"Why not, buddy? Pal? My main man?"

"Stop," Keith laughs, and Lance laughs with him.

He tightens his arm around Keith's neck, and Keith kisses him back despite the teasing.

It's amazing how much better he feels? How relaxed? How, even though he sort of wants to get cleaned up, in his pajamas again, and cuddled beneath a cozy blanket; he has no desire no move at all? And the best part is, he doesn't _have to._ There's no rush at all.

The movie in the living room finished without them, and the apartment is silent. There's an occasional whisper of noise from neighbors, and the murmur of evening traffic, but the only sound in the room with them is the soft parting of their lips as Keith pulls back.

"What did you say earlier?" Keith asks.

"When?"

"Before. When we were… You were mumbling, and it was all in Spanish."

It takes Lance a moment to figure out what he's talking about, and his face heats accordingly.

It was probably every wild thought he had, a senseless litany that - thank god - poured out in his first language rather than his second. All of those _right theres_ and _like thats._ Lance wasn't sure he had said anything out loud until just now. He would be more mortified if Keith had understood him.

"N-nothing! I, uh… I don't remember!"

He attempts to hide his face behind his hand, averts his eyes. Tries to mask the deceit before it filters through and fails spectacularly because Keith is not an idiot. He just huffs, though, his amusement as obvious as Lance is being, and says, "Okay. Just curious."

With a sheepish smile, Lance pushes himself up and urges Keith to do the same, "Okay, I'm cold and gross and I wanna clean up."

Keith scoffs, reluctant to move, but he follows Lance up anyway. He strips the dirtied sheet off the bed, leaving the mattress cover behind, while Lance snatches up his discarded shorts from the floor and walks to the bathroom on wobbly legs, flicking on the overhead light and closing the door.

He winces at first, dazzled by the brightness.

A quick glance in the small mirror has him doing a double take once his eyes have adjusted. He was right about the cut being shallow and wrong about just how much blood there was - ribbons of it have dried against his dark skin, around and down his neck and even down his chest, pooling in the dip of his collarbone. It's been smeared away in places.

Touching the nape of his neck, Lance discovers some of it has dried into his hair.

He checks on Keith again with a flicker of his thoughts. None of the earlier anxiety is present. Keith's emotions are starting to return to their normal tangle a little bit as the afterglow fades, but Lance only lands on a trickle of worry teasing its way through otherwise positive feelings.

Turning on the hot water in the sink, Lance wets a rag from beneath the sink and washes himself off as thoroughly as he can. After he's satisfied, he throws the rag into the laundry bin and stumbles back into his shorts and boxers. He doesn't know why he's feeling a little self-conscious, because Keith certainly isn't - his unusually heavy footfalls as he crosses back and forth from the laundry room and the tenor of his emotions a testament to that.

Lance cracks open the bathroom door and, certain that Keith is in his room, leaves the bathroom to pick up his shirt up from the living room floor. He had intended to straighten the pillows and comforter on the couch, to do something useful, but only the pillows remain. Pausing to listen, he hears the tumble of the dryer along with the low hiss and sputtering from the washing machine.

The bathroom door is closed again - the sink running - when Lance creeps back down the hall to Keith's room.

The lamp on the bedside table is on, now.

After being mostly in the dark for so long, it gives the room a surreal cast, and Lance stands there for a moment, unsure of what to do. He realizes that he's tired; his arms and legs still relaxing from the all the tension they carried, a few minor tremors still rippling down to his toes.

The dryer clicks and buzzes somewhere behind him. The bathroom door opens, and Keith plods quickly down the hall. A louder, hollow click. Thudding feet.

Lance turns to face the door - and gets assailed by the heavy blue comforter, radiating heat, as Keith holds it open between his spread arms and engults Lance in a tight hug. Lance's laughter is muffled by the fabric. He staggers, and Keith's sturdy arms keep him upright. He feels Keith tuck his face into his neck, feels the press of his contentment. When Lance works to get his arms free, wanting to hug Keith back, Keith somehow manages to keep him wrapped inside the comforter and stoops to pick him up at the same time.

He scoops Lance's legs out from under him, one arm supporting his back.

"What," Lance laughs loudly, "Am I, a burrito or something?"

"The tastiest," Keith answers, and then flairs with embarrassment that he said it something so dumb.

Lance shrieks as Keith tosses him effortlessly onto the bed, where he bounces more forcefully than he did a few minutes ago. Unable to contain his laughter, Lance fights his arms free of the twisted comforter in order to get ahold of Keith as the other boy drops on top of him. They roll and tussle for a bit. Their laughter subsides, and they settle down with their arms around each other, the blanket a warm canopy keeping them close.

"You're thoughtful," Lance teases, brushing the tip of his nose along Keith's cheekbone.

"No. Just copying you."

Keith nuzzles him back, and Lance feels the ghost of his smile against his cheek, the gentle play of his uplifting mood. That tremor of guilt is still underneath, shifting just out of his reach, as if Keith is trying to make up for it. Lance pulls back from him a bit and touches his neck, feels the lightly raised scab.

"Is this bothering you?" he asks quietly.

"No." Keith's eyes drop to it, then glance away. He mumbles, "...Sorry."

"It was just an accident, Keith."

"I know. … I should be more careful."

Rather than correcting him and undermining the way he's feeling about it, Lance lifts the corner of his mouth into a playful smirk and presses closer, "We can practice. We've got like, literally all night to practice."

Keith sputters out a nervous laugh and blushes.

"You sure you can handle any more?"

"Wow, excuse me! I have a condition! That's what the practicing is for! Also, you should absolutely take it as a compliment because that was so amazing it pretty much put me in a coma."

"That's true. I was a little worried - you've never been that quiet the whole time I've known you."

"That's… rude!"

"It's honest."

Lance makes a dismissive noise, pouting. He stares Keith down in the tempered lamplight, and Keith looks right back at him; slowly leans in, opens his mouth, and bites down gently on the lip Lance has stuck out. Lance gasps and jerks back. Keith let's him.

It rekindles that fire in his belly, just a little.

"Bold," Lance says.

"Yeah? And?"

There it is.

That's the attitude Lance loves. He forgets sometimes - around everything that's happened, around the melancholy Keith carries with him now - that Keith is fierce and stubborn and competitive. Those are the traits Lance first admired most, what kept him chasing after Keith long after he vanished.

Maybe because he mirrors them.

Maybe because the contrast between Keith when he burns his brightest and Keith when he simmers, gentle and quiet and so attentive, is so unexpected unless you know him deep down, and because Keith lets so few people close to him.

Those feelings sweep through Lance and into Keith, who flinches as if Lance poked a bruise. He isn't like that. He doesn't deserve to be looked at that way.

Lance doesn't give those knots any chance to tighten. He kisses Keith, no heat or pressure, just gentle affection, because he knows Keith needs time and patience and a hundred answers to the uncertainty he has about his very existence at the moment. Lance is willing to wait, and to be with him, no matter what - for as long as Keith will let him.

When Keith understands this, the moment he relaxes, Lance dips his head to Keith's neck and pinches the tender skin between his teeth.

Keith yelps, laughs.

_"Lance!"_

"What? You bit me first! I thought you might wanna know how it feels!"

  
  
  
  
  
  


.fin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you guys for reading! If you liked this one and you haven't yet - again - PLEASE read Indigo Pull, which just reached it's climax (pun not intended in the slightest)!!
> 
> I hope everyone is staying safe and healthy and happy out there!
> 
> [my tumblr](http://bobtheacorn.tumblr.com) | [my twitter](https://twitter.com/bobtheacorn)


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